


Finding John

by holmesian_love



Series: Lost and Found [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mild Sex Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 100,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24035785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holmesian_love/pseuds/holmesian_love
Summary: After Sherlock and John have found their way back to each other, John must begin the journey to find his memories and and piece together his past. Will he find what he is looking for, or will he disappoint Sherlock in the end?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Lost and Found [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733839
Comments: 227
Kudos: 64
Collections: HolmesCon Writers Collection





	1. The Therapist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows on a couple of weeks from where Lost and Found ended.

The office was very subdued, John felt. Both in sound and colour. The double-glazed windows blocked out the street noise so effectively it was a hyperbaric chamber level of muffled, which made his ears strain to accept any noise at all. The tones of the office – the paintwork and furnishings – had clearly been designed to give the impression of calm. Echoing the pebbles on the beach in the large mass-produced canvas on the wall, a soft fabric couch in beige corduroy with cushions in greys and taupes sat invitingly curved into the corner. A small table sat at one end with tasteful magazines, a lamp and a mini Zen garden. At the other end a large potted palm was clearly trying to give the room an inviting feel. People always felt calmer in the presence of house plants. John never understood that. They gave him anxiety – so dependent on the owner to look after them. He was sure he would fail miserably where plants were concerned. The receptionist simpered quietly into the phone that had been turned to the softest ring tone possible. It all presented a facade of stillness, but it made John feel more unsettled than anything. It was an enforced stillness – not the usual hustle and bustle of a medical practice waiting room.

He steadied himself at the glass doorway, Sherlock waiting patiently and silent behind him. With a deep breath in and out of acceptance, he opened the doors and walked to the counter. His very footfalls on the plush carpet felt intrusive on the space. The receptionist greeted him with raised eyebrows, expectant.

“John Watson?” he offered nervously.

“Ah yes Mr Watson. She’s actually ready for you now if you want to go straight through,” the lady said so smoothly, it was as if she was a radio presenter, speaking into one of those microphones that makes their voice so honeyed. She took a moment to eye Sherlock up and down, and John turned to acknowledge him.

“I’ll just …” Sherlock gestured to the couch, awkwardly. The receptionist forced a smile.

The whole space was so incongruent to what Sherlock’s bold, messy flat normally looked like that he must have been feeling even more uncomfortable than John. As if the very act of being there might tarnish it in some way. But he didn’t say a word. He just quietly walked himself over and grabbed a magazine, settling into the couch. He glanced up at John and they gave each other an eyebrow gesture – a silent conversation between them:

_You okay?_ Sherlock implied.

_Yes, I’ll be fine. You?_ John asked with his eyes.

_Yep. Me too. Go on now._ Sherlock responded back.

John looked to the receptionist, confirming it was okay to enter with a nod, before stepping to the door and opening it. As he entered, a lady was already rounding her desk to greet him.

“John?” she asked, with such warmth it was as if she knew him already.

“Yes. Hi.” John took her hand firmly and shook it. Her hands were warm, and John felt the sudden contrast with his own, which were icy cold from the outdoors. 

“Sorry, my hands are dreadfully cold,” he commented, nervously.

“It’s fine. Take a seat, John,” she said pleasantly as she invited him to the couch in her room, which mirrored the couch from the waiting room. Clearly, she either had a decorator or a good eye. This couch was the same but furnished with aqua and beige cushions. Slightly more inviting and vibrant, without being too much. John sank into the couch and the plush cushions surrounded him in what felt like a hug of encouragement. A part of him hated that it felt good. He was less than comfortable being here. He wanted to hate it so he could just prove to Sherlock and Mycroft that it had been a mistake. He let his shoulders relax a little in answer to the comfort of the couch.

“How are you feeling John?” she asked invitingly, sitting herself in a more business-like looking chair opposite the couch. It had metal legs and a comfortable looking seat but was able to be moved to different parts of the room – a less permanent fixture.

He looked at her nervously, trying to think of what to say.

“I should start by introducing myself, of course. I’m Claire. Obviously, you know that from the card,” she smiled. “John, this is a safe space. Mycroft is an old friend and he has filled me in on a lot of the situation and asked me to handle your case personally. So, if it helps, I’m up to speed with a lot of what has already happened to you.”

John let out a breath he didn’t realise had been caught up in his upper chest and really let go in a sigh of relief.

“That’s great,” he said, nodding, and he really meant it.

“I know therapy can be daunting at first, John. You’ve been through a lot. You _all_ have. And having to relay that to a new person and trust someone new … well I know that’s going to feel a bit terrifying at first.”

“Yes. It _absolutely_ feels that way. I’m sorry, it’s just the last time I went to therapy …” he began.

She let the thought sit there for a moment, leaving space for John if he needed it. But John couldn’t seem to finish the thought. He was unsure of how that therapy had even been for him, but he knew it wasn’t good. How could it be, when he had no memories left?

“It’s completely understandable, John. How about I talk first while you get comfortable and then we can see how you feel about what I have to say on this?” Claire offered confidently, but gently. She was clearly good at this. He nodded thankfully, feeling more at ease already and clasped his hands together nervously in his lap.

“From what I understand, you were given therapy. Possibly some sort of invasive therapy and you have lost most of your memories as a result of this, or as a result of trauma from the accident. But you are having little moments of memories return to you?” she prompted.

“Mm-hm,” he agreed, not able to elaborate more. He was nervously fidgeting with his jeans legs as she talked, listening but rubbing his hands back and forth along his thighs. Partly to warm them, and partly from the nervous energy.

“There’s a lot of ways we can approach this, and a lot we will need to unpack and deal with, John. It’s going to take more than one session, obviously. But I think I’d like to jump right in and try some hypnosis with you and see how you respond,” she suggested lightly.

“Hypnosis? You believe in that?” John said, his voice dripped with caution, his fidgeting stopping abruptly in fear.

“Oh, it’s a very real technique, I assure you. We won’t be making you run around the room like a chicken if that’s what you’re worried about! That’s not really what it’s about. I’ll put you in a very relaxed state and we will just walk through that brain of yours and see what we can find in there. How much of it is still there. I suspect it’s in there, but just hiding behind a wall and we need to coax those memories back out for you.” Claire let that sit in the air between them.

“You think you can get them back? My memories?” he checked hopefully. His heart started beating faster and he couldn’t tell if it was excitement or dread motivating it.

“I think it’s possible. But I won’t know until we investigate it a bit and see what happens. How would you feel about that?” she probed encouragingly.

“I think … I think I’d really like to remember myself. And Sherlock. I …”

Claire smiled, leaving the space open again.

“I know I loved this man, we have a history, but I have forgotten him. For five years. I would really like to remember us. From before. Even just a glimpse of it would be … important for me,” he finished. With that statement he realised just how true it was. He was clinging to hope that this could help him, more desperately than he had realised.

She nodded and smiled. She could see John was opening up to her, to the space and to the idea of this new adventure. She watched as he fidgeted with his hands in his lap, despite appearing relaxed. She could see he was still quite anxious.

“How are things with Sherlock? Mycroft said you are living together?” she prompted.

“Well. It’s going surprisingly well. Sherlock is so … understanding. I have a feeling he is having to work hard to be so accommodating actually. Like he’s worried if he’s himself, if he gets upset, I’ll leave. It’s a bit like we’re walking on eggshells I think. It’s still very … new. At least for me, since I don’t remember before. But it’s nice to be around each other all the time. There’s a spare bedroom, so I have a space to go to if I want to be alone.” John found this prattle easy – less confronting, just stating the facts.

“And do you?” Claire asked. John cocked his head in question. “Do you want to be alone often?”

“No. We mostly sleep in Sherlock’s bed, together,” he said simply, innocently.

“Are you sexually active with each other?” she prompted, and the direct question was confronting for John.

He scrunched up his nose. “No. No, none of that,” he laughed nervously. “I mean, we kiss. We mostly just _sleep_ in the same bed. It brings us both comfort, I think. And we often cuddle up to one another. But I’m not comfortable …” John cleared his throat awkwardly and adjusted his shoulders. “I’m not ready for that.”

“And is Sherlock comfortable with that?” she asked, a little accusatory John felt.

“Yes.” He looked at his hands in his lap, his brow furrowing. “Well I think so, yes. He’s certainly not pressuring me,” John said. _Was Sherlock comfortable with that?_ John hadn’t really asked. It had only been a couple of weeks. _Gosh_ , John thought to himself. _Had it really only been that long?_ They hadn’t talked a lot about it yet.

“John, there’s no right or wrong answers here. Not in your situation. Whatever you are feeling or thinking, is valid,” she reassured him.

“I know I feel _something_ for him. I remember that I loved him. And I do want to be around him … all the time. I know that. I know when we kiss it’s like nothing I’ve felt or remember feeling. And I like it. I want to kiss him. But if it gets more …” he cleared his throat again and looked at Claire a bit lost.

“Physical?” she prompted.

“Yes, if it becomes more physical.” John gave her a grateful look for finding a comfortable word, “I feel sick. Actually sick, like I’m going to throw up. My head hurts. It’s a physical reaction. A repulsion,” he paused. It sounded so terrible when he said it aloud like that. “I can see it hurts him that I feel that way. But I can’t stop it.” His face was pained now at the admission. “We don’t talk much about it, though.”

“John, if what you have been through is a type of conversional or reparatory therapy, it is likely they have tried to replace memories after your accident or instil a guilt or an aversion in you. It’s perfectly normal that you’re having that reaction. And I think I can help with _all_ of that. But I want you both to take baby steps. One thing at a time,” she smiled reassuringly.

John grimaced. He was so tired of taking baby steps.

“I feel like I’m completely blindfolded, and someone is trying to walk me slowly through a live minefield,” he said.

“You are. That’s exactly what it’s like John! So that’s why we take small, careful steps. We aren’t going to jump in both feet first. We don’t want to set any bombs off today. Okay?” she laughed gently.

John nodded slowly, feeling a small bit of relief. He was so frustrated with himself.

“You are safe here. Just remember that. And I want to start with _you_ first, but we can include Sherlock in the process along the way if it will help you both. It might be good for him to hear and see what’s happening to you. But you aren’t there yet,” she paused, leaning forward in her chair, elbows resting on her legs so she could be closer to John. “Right now, we just want to see if we can remove one of the parts of the blindfold. So, _you_ know we can do it, and so you know you can trust _me_. I think we need something you can take away from today and know that it’s going to be worthwhile.” Her face questioned him for approval.

“Am I that obvious?” John asked, looking guilty.

She sat back in her chair again. “It’s pretty normal, particularly with men … and men your age. Change is terrifying for most people at the best of times. But for you, you’ve lost everything you know, and put some coping mechanisms in place to survive, and now we are going to peel that back. It’s normal to be scared, and to be doubtful,” she said, and John felt reassured. He trusted this woman. She seemed to know what she was doing.

“Okay. So, what now?” He had not felt so child-like as he did in this moment, so uncertain and powerless.

“Today let’s just try a very short, very small hypnosis. To see if we can manipulate the brain a little bit and just see where it takes us. I’ll be gentle and we won’t stay under for long.”

John tensed again as the idea of doing this became more of a reality. He could feel his shoulders lift and tense and couldn’t get them to relax. He didn’t like giving away how he was feeling. His breathing had hitched.

“Just breathe John. I’m going to ask you to lie down on the couch first,” she said calmly.

“I didn’t think therapists really did that,” John joked with a nervous huff.

“Well, generally we don’t,” she smiled at him in answer. “But I think it will help you to relax a little bit.” She stood up and came over to help him get settled in position. “That’s it, John, lie back and adjust the cushions so you are comfortable.”

“Okay,” John said nervously, as he fidgeted back and wriggled amongst the cushions to find a more comfortable spot. He held his legs awkwardly off the couch, worried about his shoes.

“Here, let me help you. Let’s remove those shoes so you can relax a bit more – is that all right with you?” Claire asked, as she put her hand on his foot.

“Sure,” he laughed again nervously. “To be honest, this definitely _was_ what I was picturing therapy to be like, but I sort of told myself I was being ridiculous.” He felt himself relax as he made the joke.

“Yes, well, we do like to sometimes just rise to our patients’ expectations,” she laughed, knowing that it was helping John to relax in his own way.

“Does everyone react this way when you do it?” He looked up at her, checking for approval.

“Pretty much,” she agreed. And they smiled at each other again. “Okay John, now you’re settled …”

And John’s heart dropped as he realised _this was it_. They were really trying this. And his heart rate started to thud heavily against his chest, taking his breath away for a moment. He noticed the ceiling above him was a slightly off white that matched the walls and was mostly clean. _Well maintained,_ he thought to himself. Often when one looked up in an office, it would become apparent that no one paid attention to the ceiling. But clearly, she had thought of that with her patients lying down. He liked that she had given that attention to detail. John’s eyes were drawn to a small dark spot, probably a small moth, or insect that had settled itself on the paintwork, marring the perfect, pristine colour. He couldn’t stop focussing there, waiting to see if it moved. Shadows and light reflections from outside danced across the ceiling and fought for John’s attention.

“… I want you to close your eyes. Remember I’m here, and you are safe. Close your eyes and try to slow your breathing a little bit.” The mention of breathing took John back to a couple of weeks before when he helped Sherlock to calm his breathing …

_“Look into my eyes and copy my breathing. Look at me. Only me,”_ John had said firmly _._

_Sherlock had held onto John’s elbows for support and stared firmly into his eyes while John held his face firmly and guided him to breathe._

… and suddenly he could see Sherlock’s eyes in his mind, and the moment they had steadied their breathing together and he found himself relaxing and breathing slower.

“Good.” Claire sounded surprised and pleased. “That’s really good, John. Keep slowing that breathing down and listen to my voice.” John could hear her settling into her chair more comfortably as well, the leather making a little squeak as she adjusted. He could hear the fabric of her trousers rustle against each other as she probably crossed her legs to get comfortable. Even the pen moving across the paper was audible now as John slowed his breathing and suddenly the room became very still. Just as in the waiting room, his ears began to forage for any sound to fill the void. Even the traffic outside wasn’t permeating the windows.

“Good, John, that’s great.” Her voice had slowed its pace. John imagined that was part of the hypnosis technique. He could feel the back of his neck tingling as her consonants tickled the air gently. It was out of his control. “Now I want you to imagine you are in a long corridor. A very large, long corridor. And in that corridor, there is light around you – you can look around to figure out where the light is coming from.”

John felt a bit silly – resisting the urge to giggle – but before he could comment, sure enough the image began to form in his head. A large corridor, with very dark red wine-coloured carpet. It looked old and the pattern on it was dark and hard to make out, probably a bit worn. The walls were a dark green colour and on the walls around him were lamps, not at full light, a little dull but light nonetheless. It reminded him a bit of the first time he walked into Lestrade’s study, when he and Sherlock had “met” again on his first day at the new university. He smiled to himself as he remembered the look on Sherlock’s face. The absolute shock and frustration, it was terrifying. For a moment, he felt suddenly nervous. _What if we find things out in therapy and it makes Sherlock look at him like that again?_ They had come such a long way in a very short amount of time and John couldn’t have been happier about that. But he didn’t want to see Sherlock look at him again with loathing or disappointment. He couldn’t fail Sherlock after all this time. After all his waiting, all his patience, all his support.

“John. Listen to my voice. Just let go of whatever you’re thinking about, and slow that breathing down again. Just gently,” she coaxed.

John realised he must have been panicking enough that Claire had noticed, and he tried again to slow his breathing and focus on the hallway. “Sorry,” he answered and shuffled himself between the cushions again to refocus.

“That’s better. Tell me what you see,” she pressed.

“It’s a dark hallway, gentle lights. I can’t see to the end.” John noticed his voice didn’t sound like his. It was almost like an out of body experience. His voice was slightly pensive and distant.

“That’s right, John. The hallway will be dark at the end. We don’t know what’s there yet. But we are going to slowly walk down the corridor. You don’t need to be afraid, I’m here. And you are safe,” her voice drifted off.

John tentatively looked down at his feet and they didn’t want to move. It was like they had been cemented to the carpet which felt ridiculous. _Why couldn’t he just move his feet?_

“You don’t have to force them John. The more you push, the less they want to move. You need to _breathe_. And focus on the corridor. Think about how you would like to go to the end of it, and your feet will carry you there,” she directed him.

He relaxed, and sure enough, his left foot lifted slowly and moved forward a step. It gave him a little thrill of excitement that he was able to move. But he felt sluggish, like he was moving in slow motion, or walking through the thick muddy water in a dirty lake. He felt no connection to his body.

“John you are moving through that corridor now, and I’m going to start counting. I’m going to count backwards and as I count backwards, you are going to move further down that corridor and slowly relax even more. Don’t force anything, just let things come naturally. As I count backwards from ten to one, you’re going to move towards the end of the corridor, starting at ten …”

John felt a surge of energy in his body. Like he had been revitalized and life began to flow into him. His feet moved a little faster and more confidently. His head felt foggy, though. Like in that moment as you start to fall asleep, the slow divide of your conscious self and the unconscious world.

“Nine …” Claire’s voice echoed around him in the corridor like a whisper but in surround sound speakers coming from all directions. John felt a tingling in his shoulders and spine.

He could feel his breath flowing through his body. He looked down at his arms. He was wearing a grey jumper. It had a hole on the sleeve of his left arm, and a pulled thread hanging at the waist, as it folded over the top of his jeans. _Was this his grandmother’s jumper that Sherlock had told him about?_ His brown suede boots were comfortable and laced efficiently. He knew this was not what he had worn into the office, so it confused him briefly …

“Eight … feel yourself moving further from the light John, further down that corridor. Don’t get distracted …” she prompted again.

John kept walking and he felt an odd combination of sleepy, confused and excited, but his feet kept stepping ahead. He passed an odd-looking clock on the wall and was distracted by it, hearing the tick-tick-tick of the second-hand pulsing in time with his heart beat, walking him to what he couldn’t fathom was ahead. He could feel the temperature of the room now, smell the carpet, hear the buzzing of one of the lamp bulbs. It felt completely real.

“Six …”

As he edged closer to the brink of the light, Claire’s voice became more and more distant. He was fascinated by this space at the end of the corridor. He couldn’t tell if the border of the lighted area was edging into the darkness, or if the dark was creeping forward to engulf the light, edging ever closer to reach John. There was an ominous foreboding as he became transfixed with the area in the carpet where the light transitioned, and he was too afraid to step there yet. He could feel a slight buzzing in his ears, _the rush of blood_ , he thought to himself. His face started to feel warm from the combined sensations of what was happening, and of what was to come. His eyes were glued to the dark patch ahead as his feet moved him closer and closer …

“Three …”

Suddenly the urge to step into the darkness overwhelmed him and his body surged forward.


	2. Going Back

“Two …” Claire’s voice had faded into the background now, and he was starting to hear other voices, distant voices in his head that were taking over where the buzzing had begun. It was like being stuck between two radio stations, hearing bits of both things at the same time, one getting clearer as he tuned closer. John couldn’t quite make out the words. He looked behind him, but no one was there and as his toes edged into the border between light and dark, he heard a _distinct_ voice behind him. It was familiar but his mind couldn’t pull coherent thoughts together. He was feeling foggy and displaced and he closed his eyes briefly as the sensations started to take over.

With his eyes closed, he had the distinct sensation that the room was slightly colder, that the smell was slightly different.

“What did you say?” John heard, in a harsh tone and he opened his eyes.

“You there! What did you say?” A man pointed right at him it seemed.

John, taken aback and very confused about where he was, blushed terribly. “Uh sorry?” He stuttered nervously. “Me?” he checked, looking around. _Had he been asleep?_

He was rudely nudged in the ribs by the man beside him.

“Shhh, John,” the man urged in a nervous whisper. John looked beside him, irritated at the audacity of this person ribbing him. The man was plump, friendly, with rosy cheeks and sandy brown hair. Small spectacles on his face. A blue and yellow striped scarf around his neck.

“No,” the familiar voice from behind him said again with a click of his tongue in annoyance, “not _you._ He was talking to _me_.” Even without looking, John recognised the voice and the audible eye roll seeping through the tone.

He turned excitedly around and there behind him sat Sherlock. A slightly younger Sherlock. His hair was slightly longer and more reminiscent of a stereotypical mad genius. His shirt was crisp and white though, starched collar and a navy-blue jacket with a grey scarf. Very proper. Very formal. Completely intimidating and devastatingly gorgeous.

John couldn’t help but give a huge smile of relief. It was Sherlock after all! In response, however, Sherlock gave him a strange side glare as if John should not be smiling at him, as if he didn’t expect it. He gave an obvious raise of his chin in defiance and superiority. Then he stood abruptly and walked forward, his footfalls heavy and purposeful on the wooden steps down to the board at the front of the room.

John took in the room around him. A standard lecture theatre. Well, clearly not by the standards of his _recent_ university experience. This was obviously a university steeped in tradition – in a long line of wealthy families attending and paying their way – with a front desk in beautifully maintained dark wood and large chalk boards edged in wooden frames behind the desk, the kind you could slide back and forth and adjust. Scrawled in chalk over the board were some complex formulas. _Mathematical? Scientific?_ John strained to make sense of them. The class was full to bursting with young men and women, books out, all looking intently at the work. The tiered seating was also crafted in wood with desks and benches spread around in an arch formation to allow good vantage points from across the entire lecture room. The boards and front desk were in a sunken area at the front. John glanced around. No-one else caught his eye, no-one he recognised. On the wall, though, he recognised the clock … he had just seen it in his hallway, in his mind, ticking as he walked. Now here it was ticking in this room, loud enough that it could be heard from where John was seated. It gave him a moment’s pause. _Had his memory stored this clock from an old lecture room? From a past memory?_

He glanced down at his books, and realised they were open, and he had written everything from the board down, but had a question mark beside the third line of the formula. His pen still in hand, he had been scribbling at the border of his page, clearly distracted in class himself. The sketch was made up of jagged lines at varying angles, some he had traced over more than once, creating a sort of undefined geometric pattern.

The gentleman next to John, who had nudged him before, leaned over to him now.

“Can you _believe_ this guy?” he whispered loudly. “What a twat! I mean, seriously,” he puffed.

“Sorry what?” John asked, very confused and disoriented.

“You okay, John? You look a bit … are you still _hungover_?” he asked, joking.

“Uh no, I’m fine … I was just … concentrating,” he tried to spit out.

“Daydreaming more like it! Could you imagine if _we_ tried to pull a stunt like _this_ guy?” he continued, indignant. “I guess it helps when your brother pays your way in!” He rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in annoyance.

John looked at the mess of books on the bench beside him and could see “Mike Stamford” written crudely on the front of one of the books. Obviously, Mike and John knew each other. He just gave Mike a knowing half smile and turned his focus back to the front to see what was going on, still trying to get his bearings.

At the front of the room, Sherlock was rubbing out the professor’s work furiously and arguing quietly back and forth as he changed the formulas around – right at the place that John also had marked his page, he noted. Other members of the class were chuckling between themselves or chatting quietly with looks of annoyance on their face. They were clearly not impressed by this display. But John was. Sherlock was brilliant. John watched, fascinated. Sherlock’s curls bounced wildly as he explained his theory to the professor. Apparently, the professor didn’t like being corrected and ended the argument by asking Sherlock to sit back down rather firmly with a dramatic point of his arm. Sherlock stormed from the board, dropping the chalk to the table as he walked back to his seat.

The professor did not look happy.

“Yes, well. Ladies and gentlemen. Mr _Holmes_ here seems to think he has all the answers,” he announced stiffly to the room, obviously trying to recover face. “What about you, _you there_? What do you say to that?” he pointed square at John again, Mike shrunk low in his bench.

“Me?” John asked, pointing to himself in shock again.

“Yes, you! Do you support this … this outrageous claim?” he asked as some of the students made a point of giggling more openly.

Sherlock began the walk back to his seat looking slightly humiliated. As he reached the stairs beside John’s seat, he stopped and looked sideways at John, sullen and expecting the worst. Clearly, waiting to see what John would say.

“Actually” John cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat, feeling the full weight of Sherlock’s demanding glare. “Yes, sir,” John said boldly.

“John!” Mike let out in a loud whisper under his breath, shaking his head slowly from side to side and placing his head in his hands. Some of the people nearby groaned.

“Sorry?!” the professor raised his voice, louder this time.

“Uh yes, sir. I agree with him. I also thought there was an issue on the third line, so … I agree,” John tried to say with some confidence but with the professor glaring at him, and Sherlock standing beside him staring, mouth slightly open in shock, he was trying to make the best of it. It was like his mouth and his brain were working on auto pilot, but he was stuck in his body observing and not sure he knew what the right thing was to say.

“And _your_ name?” the professor demanded, hands on hips looking John up and down.

“Watson sir,” he said, his heartbeat starting to race anxiously. _What was he doing?_

Sherlock quietly returned to his seat behind John, not saying a word.

“Well, class, it seems that _Mr Holmes_ and his accomplice, _Mr Watson_ there, feel I made a grave error. So, for their sakes, you will copy down Mr Holmes’ corrections and check it for yourselves tonight as homework,” the professor spat.

There were more groans about the room as students began writing frantically and mumbling amongst themselves.

“You can all hand in two pages on the merits of Holmes’ solution. Due tomorrow afternoon. And you can thank these two mugs for that. Class dismissed.” And with that the professor grabbed his leather bag and books and stormed out of the room, not waiting for a response from the class.

Much discussion took place after the professor left and John noted that many students took the opportunity to flick an annoyed glance back at them both. He checked behind him, to see Sherlock looking dejected as he put his books into his bag, slowly packing up. Sherlock was mumbling quietly to himself under his breath, ignoring the response from the class. Someone threw a piece of scrunched up paper that bounced off Sherlock’s wild curls. His head jerked up to try to find the offender and suddenly their eyes connected, Sherlock catching John staring. John blushed, returning to his own belongings.

“John, I have to run,” Mike interrupted. “See you later? Maybe you can help with the homework tonight now that you’re responsible?” He dug his elbow at John, before he stood and cleared out, not waiting for a response.

John was nervous to move but stood up to begin putting his books in his bag. The side movement helped him to see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye, who was watching him intently.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly, a little sulkily.

“You were right though. Of course I should say so,” John said and turned his head to give him a smile. He couldn’t put his finger on why he was here in _this_ moment. What this memory was about.

Sherlock sat there for a moment, not speaking. Not moving. Finally, he put his bag on the table and reached out his hand.

“Holmes. Sherlock Holmes,” he said, waiting for John to shake his hand with seemingly renewed confidence.

_He doesn’t know me. Is this … is this where we met?_ John thought, suddenly. As his brain caught up, his hand was already outstretched.

“Watson. John Watson,” he said flashing another smile. “Don’t worry, _most_ professors don’t like to be bested by their students,” he reassured Sherlock who gave a slight smile in return.

“Well most of them could learn a thing or two. You’re the first student to back me up though. That was … good.” His brow creased with a bit of uncertainty.

John thought _this_ Sherlock was utterly charming. Sweet and intelligent but not overly confident. Definitely shy and slightly unsure of himself, he wasn’t making eye contact. Before John could say any more, Sherlock had grabbed his bag and stepped out from his desk to walk down the stairs in a hurry, ending the conversation abruptly.

John couldn’t let him get away. Not now that he was _here_. He finished roughly packing his books into his bag and ran down the stairs after Sherlock who was walking, shoulders hunched. His big black wool overcoat obvious from a mile away. The coat was long and billowed out in the breeze as he moved further away from John. He had already made his way out of the building and into the grounds, his long legs giving him the advantage.

“Wait! Holmes … uh … Sherlock?!” John called, pushing past a few annoyed people, trying to get his attention.

Sherlock stopped abruptly and turned with a look of confusion on his face, not sure where the sound had come from. Straight away John could see this was not a person who got approached by anyone often. Sherlock grabbed at his bag nervously as if someone was coming to take it away, or perhaps it was hiding a secret inside he didn’t want anyone to see. John’s heart ached a little in that moment. Sherlock was evidently edgy and defensive and not used to company.

John ran up to him, stopping in front of the taller man, trying to grab his breath. _This_ John was not as unfit as he knew he was now, but the sudden effort still took him a moment to catch his breath before he could explain himself.

“Sorry, I just thought … well I’d love to talk to you more about … well about that … thing just now.” _Very eloquent John,_ he thought to himself.

“Physics? You want to talk to me about physics?” Sherlock asked, confused. He relaxed his bag and his shoulders a bit more.

“Yeah. Physics.” John gave him a nervous, reassuring smile. “You’re smart, clearly. And not afraid to challenge a professor. I just thought …” John had no idea where he was going with this, but he wanted to spend more time with Sherlock.

“Do you drink coffee?” Sherlock suddenly asked awkwardly.

“Ah, yes sure. Yeah, I do,” John said, caught by surprise, nodding a little too enthusiastically.

“Okay,” Sherlock replied, staring straight at John, not communicating any emotion John could follow.

“Okay?” John asked, not sure if he had missed some special code.

“Well I was going to get coffee. I know a place. If you wanted to join me, we could talk there. I need coffee.” And he stood there fidgeting awkwardly with his scarf. Talking to people was clearly not something he did commonly.

“Oh great, yes. Yes, I can do that,” John said a little too eagerly. “Now?”

Instead of responding, Sherlock just turned and started walking, expecting John to follow.

They walked together silently. John took in the campus grounds as they strolled. Lush grass and green foliage, gorgeous buildings surrounding them, steeped in history. It was a beautiful day outside. The sun was warm and inviting. Despite the air being cold enough to need a coat, the sun beaming on their faces made John smile as it kissed his skin with a little bit of warmth and it seeped down to warm his body. Students had gathered in clumps around the grassed area to enjoy the warmth too. One couple lay on a blanket, talking lovingly. Another group of three students threw a frisbee to each other. A little further over, a lone student leaned against a tree, napping with a text book on his stomach. More people were scattered about, finding a place to sit together and talk or eat a snack. It made John’s heart swell. There was something fantastic about it and something so familiar. An hour ago, you could not have asked him to describe this place, and now here he was happily living in this moment which was clearly from his past. It was familiar and comforting. This past he had no apparent memory of.

“It’s a lovely day,” John said, and cringed internally. Sherlock probably hated that sort of small talk, but he was clearly observing things as they happened and not able to alter the events. _Past_ John was in charge of his mouth and body it seemed. _Past_ John didn’t know Sherlock yet.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, noncommittal. _Definitely hates small talk_ , John confirmed to himself. They continued further without more conversation, John not willing to say the wrong thing and anxious to see where they were heading.

Further along, they came to an area with shops and amenities and as they rounded a corner, a small café came into view. John felt he recognised it. _Caffé Segreto_ it was called. It was tiny. Hidden away in a laneway between other shops and offices. John was sure he had been in lounge rooms larger than this tiny café. It was practically a hole in the wall. The dark brick front made it hard to spot, a small faded red awning the only eye-catching feature. John was struck by the most heavenly scent of coffee reaching them, even metres away. It had none of the usual bitter smell of burnt milk and over worked beans.

“I know the owners. They make the best coffee,” Sherlock said with a bit of pomp, walking confidently towards the cafe. _Was he trying to impress me?_ John was absolutely fascinated to watch Sherlock. He found himself staring. Analysing. _Past_ John was plainly in awe at how gorgeous he looked. _Present_ John was struck by him as well. Sherlock looked back and caught him staring.

“What? Not good?” Sherlock suddenly said, uncertain.

“Oh no, sorry. That’s not … no. It’s good, it’s good. This looks lovely. I’ve never seen this place before,” he gave a reassuring smile and Sherlock visibly relaxed.

“It’s well hidden. That’s why I like it,” he admitted, “ _Secret Café_ ,” he translated.

“Right. So, what’s their secret then?” John asked. “What’s good?”

“They’ll make you anything. It’s _all_ good. Do you have some ridiculous order you want to challenge them with?” He was smiling. _Challenging?_ _A little flirtatious even?_

“I might have. Yeah. Promise not to laugh?” John flirted back. He was _flirting_ with this man.

Sherlock looked taken aback and gestured John forward to order and take up the challenge. He was evidently not expecting John to bite.

“Okay then. I’ll have a half strength, soy flat white, dash of vanilla.” John could hear a snort from Sherlock behind him and he looked back to see Sherlock clearly eyeing him up and down, lips pursed tightly in an attempt to not let out a laugh, his shoulders shaking from the effort.

“Seriously?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes. You _promised!”_ John let out with an embarrassed laugh.

“Technically I never promised,” he retorted, to which they both laughed in earnest.

“You cock! Well go on then, what are _you_ having? I’ll buy,” John said with confidence. He couldn’t believe how bold he suddenly felt.

“That doesn’t seem fair, I asked you here.” Sherlock was flustered and uncomfortable all of a sudden. He looked down at his shoes and John loved the way his curly hair flopped over his eyes.

“No, I insist. You’re helping me with physics today, so I’m paying,” John said, “Mind you, you’ve insulted my coffee order already so you better order quickly, before I change my mind,” he dared.

Sherlock watched John, trying to gauge for a moment if John was angry or poking fun. He seemed to decide it was okay, because Sherlock smiled at John and it was genuine.

“I’ll have my tall black, extra shot, two sugars, dash of cream, Gina,” he said with a smile to the lady behind the counter who was watching them with great interest. She was a stereotypical big Italian woman in her late fifties, wearing a red apron and seemingly very happy to see Sherlock.

“Gina. This is … John,” he hesitated. Suddenly he seemed nervous again.

“Hello John. Any friend of Sherlock’s is always welcome here. Don’t you let him bother you Mr John,” she warned, in loud broken English.

“Hush now!” Sherlock teased affectionately. “Is Carlo in?” John was struck by how friendly Sherlock was now, how relaxed.

“Yes, yes he’s out back, getting ready for lunch time,” Gina said fondly.

“Tell him we’ll have two of the specials, for lunch.” John gave him a surprised look but didn’t interrupt. “After our coffee,” he directed.

_That was an overconfident move,_ John thought, feeling slightly excited by it. Clearly Sherlock was happy to spend more time with him.

“You’ll thank me,” Sherlock simply said, not making eye contact. “Carlo makes the best pasta in the city. You’ll be hungry by the time we’ve finished with the physics.” And with that he went to find them a table. John was completely speechless at how this was unfolding and opened his wallet to pay. Gina fobbed him away: “ _anything Sherlock wanted was on the house”_ and John, in disbelief walked over to join Sherlock.

Sherlock watched John with a look that could have been predatory or scientific. John couldn’t figure out which, but it was slightly unnerving, and intense. He squared his shoulders and decided to go with it.

“You think _your_ coffee order was any better than _mine_?” He sat opposite Sherlock, teasing him.

Sherlock tossed that thought around, his mouth moving in thought, before letting out a chuckle.

He was so attractive. Beautifully chiselled cheek bones, eyes that captured the light and sparkled a blue that echoed the clear blue sky outside today. And those curls. There was something heavenly about the curls. His neck was long and muscular and reminded John of an Italian marble sculpture. He couldn’t believe how he was staring, observing Sherlock, in what was probably only a couple of seconds but felt like minutes. It felt like time had slowed down just so he could observe this man. There was brilliance there clearly, but a bite to his wit and a softness to his confidence that John was completely fascinated by.

He wondered how long this _past_ John had known of Sherlock or if this was their very first encounter. But if this was the first time he and Sherlock had ever really spoken, he knew now that he had been hit like a bolt of lightning. He wanted to sit for hours and let this man talk about whatever the hell he wanted. And John would listen. He knew that much. He didn’t know what to say next to impress him.

So John just smiled at him.

And Sherlock smiled back.

John closed his eyes for a second and took in the sudden feeling of happiness, of lightness in his chest, thinking of what to say next.

When he opened them again, he was back, lying on the couch with Claire.

The stark change from being so content, to realising he was back to his reality, was brutal. John’s heart was left with a yearning to close his eyes again and stay with _past_ Sherlock just a moment longer.

Even though logically he knew Sherlock was right outside the door in the waiting room, there was something so young and innocent about them back there and he wanted to be there again so much. His heart ached for it. He closed his eyes, hoping to return. When he realised it wasn’t going to happen, he took in a deep breath, let it out again, and opened his eyes to greet Claire and come back to reality.


	3. Reassurance

Sherlock hadn’t said a word from the moment John walked out of the therapist’s room. He just put the magazine down quietly and followed John out of the office submissively. John had to admit he was almost disappointed. As much as he was excited to see Sherlock in the flesh and relieved to be out of the therapy room, his heart was back at the café with young Sherlock. He did note that his pulse had quickened at the very sight of Sherlock, a remembrance of his feelings at the café coming forth now that Sherlock was in front of him. It excited him to know those butterflies were surfacing for him. But _this_ Sherlock was so different right now. None of the vibrancy and excitement he was expecting. It was jarring and confusing to John, trying to grasp his reality versus the situation he had just been in inside his head, which felt so very real at the time. Sherlock didn’t grab his hand like he would normally have done. He just followed quietly. They walked out of the building, got into a cab and travelled all the way home without a word being spoken.

On the ride home, John watched Sherlock intently. He was staring out the window, heavily in thought, leaning his chin on the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on the windowsill. Even with most of his head turned away, John could see a multitude of changing expressions crossing his face, oblivious to John’s presence. It made him feel guilty. _Was he hurting Sherlock by doing this, by getting help? Was Sherlock worried he would not get better?_ John wanted to speak but was grappling with his own confused thoughts and so desperately wanted to lean on Sherlock emotionally and talk to him about what he had seen. It just didn’t seem like Sherlock was ready to listen.

Sherlock only roused from his daydream when the cab pulled up at Baker Street. He grabbed his wallet out to pay the driver and jumped out onto the curb without a second glance at John. John may as well not have even been there. He wondered briefly if Sherlock had even remembered that he _was_ there, pushing forward through the door of the flat and up the stairs. All John could do was follow, a little dazed. He felt very nervous that things were not going how he had hoped. He had not expected Sherlock to react this way.

Stepping inside the flat, John noticed that Sherlock had begun taking off his coat and scarf, still heavy in thought inside his own head. Finally, John couldn’t take it any longer.

“You all right?” he asked gently. Sherlock let out a huff of air, his shoulders dropping in resigned defeat, knowing John wouldn’t be able to let him go on like this.

“I should be asking _you_ that,” Sherlock said, sadly, a little frustrated even, turning to finally acknowledge John.

“You’re very quiet,” John explained, looking at him hopefully as if he might say more.

“I just want to make sure you have space to …” Sherlock tried to find the right word with a flourish of his hand in the air, “to process.”

John tilted his head in realisation, walking to Sherlock to take both his hands. “Sherlock, I _told_ you, I don’t want space. Not space without _you_ in it.” Sherlock visibly relaxed, clearly relieved John had said that. “If I’m going to do this, as Mycroft suggested, I need you to _know_ that. And I need to know you’re okay with this. I can’t do it without you.”

“Okay,” he admitted, “okay I _know_ you said that. I just don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me everything.” He gave John a guilty look. “I don't expect that. I'm trying to give you your space. If you need it.”

John took his coat and scarf off and placed it on the back of a chair to get comfortable. He was going to have to let Sherlock into his head if this was going to work at all.

“I saw you,” John stated simply, moving over to the sofa, ignoring Sherlock's comment, leaving space for him to join him. John couldn't help noticing the contrast in this sofa to the one in the therapist's office. A dark, aged sofa. Comfortable but firm. It didn't hug you the way Claire’s sofa did, and yet there was something more comforting about this sofa. Its shared memories of their past together, of Sherlock's life and of John’s place in it too even if he didn't remember. He wondered briefly how many times they had sat on this sofa together. Had they shared dinners in front of the television? Lovers’ trysts? So many memories John was yet to unravel. But right now, he had to try and reassure Sherlock. That his intentions were to stay and to work on this. He felt guilty that he hadn't really thought about how Sherlock would be coping with all of this. “I saw us both.”

“Sorry?” Sherlock was now intrigued and decided to sit beside John.

“She … the therapist, she put me under hypnosis. I saw _us_. The day we met,” he said, and he looked into Sherlock’s eyes for some sort of reaction.

“Oh.” Sherlock was not expecting that. He let that sink in. “Hypnosis?” And he gave John a dubious look.

“Yes, I know. I thought the same,” John replied understanding the look. “The lecture, I think it was the day we met? Did that really happen?” John checked. Sherlock smiled fondly to himself.

“The café?” he asked, nodding already in approval. His eyes glazed over slightly as he remembered it for himself. That had been such a good day. The beginning of it all, really.

“ _Yes,_ ” John sighed, a little bit of relief crept in knowing he hadn’t invented the whole thing. “You’ve known my ridiculous coffee order since that first day we met?” he chastised playfully.

“Well yes, but I had been observing you well before _that_ day,” Sherlock admitted. “I always sat behind you and watched as you got distracted and scribbled all over your pages in the lectures,” he smiled cheekily.

John looked shocked. “You did?”

“Oh yes,” he nodded. “That day. That particular day, I hadn’t even bothered to write down the equations. I was busy watching you. Fascinated. You stopped on the third line. And I thought, _maybe if I make a scene he will notice me_.” And he let out a nervous giggle that John had never heard before.

“You did all of _that_ on the spot?!” John exclaimed.

“Yes. It was easy. It was always easy. The hard bit was getting up the courage to _talk to_ _you,_ ” he smiled shyly.

John stopped and took in this man, always so aloof and so confident, but really, he was so sweet under all of that bluster.

“You wanted to talk …” he shook his head in disbelief, “… to _me_?”

“Of course I did,” he said simply.

John sat there, trying to process this. How this gorgeous man would have ever thought someone like him was worthy.

“I was shy, anti-social. And you were always with Mike,” he explained.

“Well you got my attention. I was so … I was _crazy_ about you. I felt it so strongly. It was _so real_.” John sat with that for a moment, staring down at his hands in his lap as if he could grasp the very memory of it in them, and Sherlock watched, not knowing what to say. “I was a little bit sad to come out of it and be back here to be honest,” he admitted without meaning to.

Sherlock’s brow creased and John could already feel the space between them become chilly.

“No, oh god, Sherlock I didn’t mean …” John began, suddenly feeling guilty.

“I know I’m not as …” Sherlock tried to justify but couldn’t put words together. Suddenly everything between them seemed so awkward again. John was so frustrated at himself for having said anything.

“John, I will understand, you know. If you don’t think … if I’m not enough. I’ve thought a lot about this lately. It’s all right if you change your mind. If after all of this, you want to change your mind. About me. About us,” he said, and John’s heart sank in his chest. He kicked himself internally for opening his mouth and saying exactly the wrong thing to this man who had been nothing but supportive.

“No, it’s not that at all. God I’m an idiot. Sherlock, we have _both_ been through a time of it. Really. I didn’t mean that I’m not happy to be with you _now_. I mean, it was lovely to see you so carefree and happy. And to experience the feelings – how I felt about you – back then. My heart beating in my chest. You made quite an impression on me,” he blushed as he said it.

“I did?” He looked into John’s eyes, uncertain.

“ _Big time_. You’ve always impressed me,” John said affectionately and grabbed Sherlock’s hand which had been resting on the couch between them. Sherlock looked down at their entwined fingers, not sure what to say.

“I didn’t think this therapy lark was going to be much chop actually. But it felt so good to be in that moment in history and _remember_ how that felt. It really helped me. To trust what I’m feeling about you now,” John reassured him, punctuating the thought by squeezing his hand.

“And how is that?” Sherlock asked so quietly.

“Sherlock, I _love_ you. I really do. I can’t get enough of you. And reliving that time together is only making me more sure of that,” he said, and his own heart warmed at the realisation that it was really true, not just a platitude. Sherlock took in a breath and let it out, the exhale sounding a little shaky and relieved. It was unlike him to be so insecure, John thought.

“So, you think you’ll go back? To see her?” he asked, sounding a little nervous.

“Definitely. I want to see more. I want her to help me find more memories. It is helping. I feel that already. She suggested you come along too eventually,” John mentioned hesitantly.

“Do you want me to?” Sherlock couldn’t make eye contact. He was struggling so much with this.

“I think so, yes. I mean, I think as things get … harder, I may need you.” John squeezed his hand again.

“Well then,” he seemed to like that, and his shoulders lifted with more determination again, “I will be there. As long as you need me.”

“I _do_ need you. I absolutely need you, Sherlock. Don’t ever doubt that,” John gave him a reassuring grin.

He sat with that for a moment, “thank you.”

They smiled warmly at each other and John confirmed he meant it by leaning in and giving him a gentle peck on the lips and running his hand along the side of Sherlock’s face. Sherlock closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation for a few breaths, and John took in the sight of this beautiful man relaxing into his touch. The control he had in that moment, despite his confusion and fear, that he could do this to someone, just with touch. It excited and terrified him all at the same time. Then as if nothing had just taken place, Sherlock opened his eyes decisively.

“Right, well how about some tea.” He jumped up from the couch with renewed energy. “You wanted to read some more of your blogs today didn’t you? I’ll sort the tea and you make yourself comfortable. I have some reading of my own to do, so I can leave you to that.”

As John watched Sherlock head to the kitchen, his heart swelled. They were both on an emotional roller coaster at the moment, but he did so love the way Sherlock would always revert back to the comfort of domestic chores to pull them out of it. He sat for a moment, just relishing the idea that he knew he loved this man. He really loved him. Here they were together now, working their way through everything and supporting each other. He couldn’t imagine needing anything else.


	4. Domesticated

John got comfortable at the desk. From here he could see the window and a bit of the hustle and bustle of outside on Baker Street. Seeing the world carry on as normal outside unsettled him. Here he was, looking into his past, reading his unfamiliar words in the hope it would trigger some sort of magic change in him. For him it felt monumental, secretive, exciting even. Yet, to the people outside, life went on as normal. It didn’t feel right. 

Sherlock lay on the couch, textbook resting on his stomach and against his thighs, with knees bent up as a makeshift book holder. A cushion propped his head up, his tea resting in its saucer precariously on his chest as well, as if this was a usual mode of study for him. John smiled to himself. There they were, settled into domestic bliss. This man, this gorgeous man and him. He let out a nervous but contented sigh.

Returning to his screen, he scrolled through the files. Some days he read the blogs in date order to gain some context and on other days, he enjoyed selecting them at random. Sometimes he would be in fits of giggles at his young self’s naive ponderings and other times they were fascinating and insightful. He settled himself into his chair to get more comfortable as he selected a file to read and took a sip of his tea.

_Blog – Date Night!_

_I have a blind date tonight. Mike has set me up with this girl – Sarah, her name is. I’ve been so desperate to meet someone nice. To find a nice girl my parents might like. Mike met her in his chem lab and says she’s great. The thing is, I have to admit, after such a long time being single and thinking I needed to do this … well I’m a bit unsure today. Maybe it’s just nerves. It just feels a bit tragic and a bit desperate, and a bit … late._

_Sherlock and I have been spending so much time together studying. All the time in fact. There’s just an energy around him that takes my breath away. Like I want to spend every possible minute being around him and learning from him. An intensity that I just seem to click with. I mean we’re friends. We’re just friends. And we’ve been just friends for a long time now. I am pretty sure he doesn’t think of me that way at all. But sometimes the way he looks at me. It’s an intense friendship and I don’t want it to stop. I look forward to seeing him every day. Life is just not boring around him._

_I’m just being silly. He’s clearly not interested in me that way. I think he’s the type of person that would just say so if he was. In fact, I’ve asked him about relationships before. Mike likes to nag us both about it, so it’s come up a few times. His answer is always very … obtuse. I’m not even sure he wants relationships like that. And not that I think I even want that. With him. I was a bit disappointed actually at first. And then it was fine. We are friends. We are good friends. I can tell him anything. But I feel like if I go and meet this Sarah, and she’s lovely it will, I don’t know, ruin things between Sherlock and me. It will change things. And I don’t know if I want that. But it’s just dinner. What can the harm be to go and meet her at least?_

_Blog – Just a Quick One_

_Well I’m home after the date and had to add some more. I met her. And she’s lovely. Really lovely in a wholesome and sweet way. Funny and intelligent. And beautiful. We kissed good night and it was … good. I like her. I definitely will see her again without a doubt. Sarah. Sarah could very well be something special._

_Blog – Sherlock’s Tantrum_

_Today Mike and Sherlock and I were all sitting together having lunch, surrounded by books and notes and discussing our latest assignment. It was a lovely warm day, so we took the opportunity to sit outside and work together while we ate._

_Well, everything was fine. Until Sarah arrived. She spotted us and came over to say hi. The minute she got there, Sherlock was weird. He stopped talking. Sarah was trying so hard to get to know him and to be a part of our little gathering. But he was cold, bordering on mean I would say. I called him on it and he packed up and left._

_I don’t know how I’m supposed to make this work? He clearly doesn’t like her. He won’t talk to me about her. He has been avoiding my calls. I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep my friend and my girlfriend happy. It’s frustrating. Sherlock is not exactly the type of person you can just approach and have this conversation with. Even after being friends with him for a couple of years now I know that. Sherlock is difficult at the best of times. And I’m used to it. But now when it matters, and I want them to get along I have no idea how to tackle this. How am I going to smooth this over so I can have my friend and my girlfriend?_

_Blog – Lost_

_I miss him. I miss our time together. It has been weeks. WEEKS. He hasn’t been at lectures. He won’t answer calls or texts. I even went to his flat and he wasn’t there. At first, I was worried. Now I’m angry. I miss him, but I’m angry. Why won’t he talk to me? Sarah has been great. She’s very patient with me, but she knows I’m sulking. She knows I’m frustrated. Even spending time with her isn’t enough to take my mind off the fact that I miss him. I’m going out of my mind._

“How is it going?” Sherlock asked from the couch, not looking over but clearly bored with his study already.

“It’s strange,” John replied, glancing over to see if Sherlock was looking.

“What is?” He finally looked sideways at John.

“Reading my words. I know it’s me – my voice, my memory of the days as they happened. But it’s strange reading them and not remembering it. I feel myself doubting what I read – I don’t know if it’s true or not. I mean, of course it probably is but …” he didn’t know how to explain this feeling inside, this discomfort.

“Can I … can I come and sit with you? You used to read me some of your blogs. I liked it. I could sit with you and listen? I could tell you if they are true.” Sherlock’s offer was so gentle and sweet, John couldn’t refuse.

“Of course you can.” John gestured to the chair opposite him. Sherlock closed his book and grabbed the cushion from behind his head, placing his teacup on the side table, as he stood up. He walked over and instead of sitting in the chair opposite, he threw the cushion under the table and lay down there, at John's feet.

John smiled. He remembered then that Sherlock had told him about this. That he used to sit like this under the table and listen. It made him smile. He didn’t wait for Sherlock to get comfortable before he started sharing his thoughts.

“I loved you so much Sherlock you know? Even before we were ever a couple. That much is very clear. I didn’t know how to tell you,” John admitted.

“And I didn’t know how to tell you. We were quite the pair.” Sherlock joked, trying to lighten John’s mood. 

“It’s sad. I feel like we wasted so much time – not saying anything like that,” John said, more to himself than to Sherlock.

“Where are you up to?” Sherlock prompted, not wanting to accept that thought.

“You hadn’t talked to me for weeks. I didn’t take it well,” John prompted.

“Oh yes. That’s true, you _didn’t_ take that well.” Sherlock laughed gently as he said it, which John found confusing, but obviously Sherlock knew more about how it unfolded between them. John wasn’t sure he found it funny at all. From what he had read, he was really struggling with being apart from Sherlock. Why would that be amusing?

“Why did you stay away?" John asked openly.

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s shin, wrapping his hand gently around his leg in support, realising John was not ready to take this lightly. “I couldn’t bear it, John. Seeing you with Sarah. She was so lovely, so exactly what I imagined you deserved. And I was …” he trailed off in thought.

John looked down between his arms, edging back in his chair so he could see Sherlock under the table properly. “You were what?”

“I was nothing like that. I was never going to be like that. And she made you happy and it made me think how there was no universe where I would get to be with you. Not the way I really wanted. Not only were you probably not interested in men anyway from what I had surmised, but even if you _were_ , I was just never going to be the kind of person you wanted. At least, that's what I thought. I questioned everything. All those moments we had shared which I thought might have meant something, I realised couldn’t be anything at all. Because you were with her. And you really liked her,” Sherlock admitted. It made John’s heart ache for him. He had really hurt Sherlock when he was with Sarah. Their friendship, their hopes for more. He had done that. 

“That’s why you stayed away from me?” John asked, hoping Sherlock might offer more information, more detail into what happened.

“It was easier that way. For me at least,” Sherlock said simply, not elaborating. And he sat back up from under the table. “How about I organise us some dinner?” he offered.

And John admitted to himself, he was disappointed once again. Sherlock was obviously uncomfortable talking about Sarah and about how things had been between them while John was with her. He closed his laptop. It was probably a good time to stop reading and just give Sherlock some attention.


	5. The Kiss

“John, are you ready?” Claire asked.

“Yes. I think so.” He answered tentatively, already comfortable and in place on the couch. The routine was becoming almost comforting to him. To lie back on the couch and accept the memories that were slowly being pieced together. He felt as though each time, his heart was also being pieced back together, as well as his brain.

“Okay, well I think our last few sessions have gone well. I’d like to continue in the same way and work towards some longer moments in time, between you and Sherlock. Something significant between you. I want you to think about that as you start walking down that corridor today.”

John felt a buzz of excitement in his chest. He was looking forward to going back again. He wasn’t afraid. He closed his eyes and stood with confidence in his imaginary corridor. Today the lights seemed brighter. There was no ticking clock on the wall this time and the lights were completely different, giving off a much brighter glow. Perhaps a sign of his growing confidence in this process? He wasn’t sure. But even the carpet was brighter, and the walls. It felt far less murky and terrifying than it did in the beginning. The dark patch at the end of his corridor was much less ominous and more inviting and before being asked, John already found himself walking confidently towards it, his pace increasing, ready to step into the void. As he stepped into the darkness, he heard a loud bang and he opened his eyes to see his hand pressing hard against a library book on a table.

He took in his surroundings and was clearly in a university library. The table, a large wooden table covered in books, some open some closed, and notepads. The lights on the wall were the same ones from his mind corridor and he marvelled briefly at how his mind seemed to already know where he was going to end up before he even started. Small touches from his memory, random details that had coloured the decor in his mind gateway. The brain was fascinating.

Taking in more of his surroundings, there were rows of bookshelves, a few students moved between them looking for books and they had stopped to look straight at John, the loud bang clearly his fault.

When he looked in front of him, Sherlock was sitting opposite him, the maker of the mess of books obviously. His face looked startled and mortified, a blush growing on his cheeks. John had made a scene, slamming the book on to the table and before his brain could figure out what was happening, his mouth was already speaking.

“Are you actually serious right now, Sherlock?” John bellowed.

“ _Shhh John, keep your voice down_ ,” Sherlock whispered back loudly but avoided eye contact furiously, checking to see who else was watching nearby.

“Why should I?” John began, searching Sherlock’s face, waiting for eye contact. 

“ _Because you’re in a library and we don’t need the entire world to hear_ ,” Sherlock interrupted, finally making eye contact, standing slightly, leaning forward to reach across and pull at John’s jacket to try and get him to sit.

“No Sherlock,” John answered, pulling his jacket free of Sherlock’s grip. “Why are you being a complete ass? I’ve been trying to reach you for _days…weeks!_ And now here you are just sitting here in the library like I haven’t been messaging and calling! I’ve been going out of my mind!” John yelled.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock said haughtily, looking back down at his book and pretending to read.

“Of _course,_ you do, you’ve been skipping lectures and ignoring me … for _weeks_.”

John did not like that he had ended up in this memory. Why of all memories would he be wanting to remember this? He did not like it at all and his heart raced with dread instead of excitement.

“Have I? I hadn’t realised. It wasn’t intentional,” Sherlock said casually, getting up out of his chair and walking to the shelf with a book in hand. John stalked angrily after him. Sherlock placed the book back and grabbed another one from the shelf, before turning back towards the table, John blocking his way back.

“Of course … Sherlock,” John lowered his voice but the aggression bubbling under the surface was very clear. He also looked around him to make sure people had stopped staring. “Of _course_ it was intentional. We used to talk every day. I spent time with you _every day_. You’re ignoring me. Why? Because of Sarah?” His gaze was accusatory but also a little hurt.

Sherlock dodged past John and returned to his seat. “John be serious. I was just busy with the assignment work and studying for exams,” he said flippantly over his shoulder, rearranging his mess of books on the table as if he was really going to do work.

“You think I’m an idiot but I’m not. You would have finished that assignment the first night. You _always_ do. You were ignoring me.” John rolled his eyes. It was something about Sherlock that was so irritating. He was so fast at completing everything. The fact that he would pretend to use it as an excuse was insulting. John looked around again, making sure no one was listening in to their conversation. “Are you … are you _mad_ at me?” John demanded.

“No, of course not,” Sherlock scoffed, avoiding eye contact as he skimmed his new book.

“Then what’s going on?” he asked more forcefully, pointing at the table as if it would somehow demonstrate some force.

“Nothing John, honestly.” Sherlock tried to sound reassuring, but his voice shook a little and John noticed.

“Sherlock,” he leaned in and put his hand over the middle of the book to block Sherlock’s attempts at pretending to read it, to show he wasn’t buying it. “Look me in the eye and say that,” he demanded.

Sherlock wouldn’t look up. Couldn’t give John his eyes. He would see, he would _know_.

“ _Sherlock,_ ” John pressed.

“What?!” Sherlock exploded, defensively, closing the book in a huff.

“It’s just, you’re behaving like …” John began but had no idea how to finish. _Did he really want to have this out finally? Could he even bring this up?_ He stood back up to be less threatening in the hope it might entice Sherlock to speak.

“Like what?” He sulked, sitting back with his arms crossed, challenging John to finish that thought.

“Never mind,” John stopped awkwardly.

“No really, what?” he charged forward.

“You’re behaving like you’re _jealous_ ,” John stated, and the statement sat in the air between them, highly charged. Sherlock just stared. That had caught him off guard. He was clearly suddenly uncomfortable, and John could sense Sherlock’s brain ticking furiously over before deciding how to respond.

“You think I’m _jealous_?” he finally retorted with a huff of air. “Jealous of what?”

“Of Sarah. Of me spending time with her,” he said.

Even as it came out of his mouth it sounded stupid. All this time they had been friends and they had never talked about the elephant in the room. The fact that they had become so very important to each other and now things had changed. They had been friends for nearly two years now. But in the last few months, before Sarah came along, there had been increasingly something extra between them – stolen glances and intense moments beyond friendship – and they had never discussed it. It had never needed to be discussed. It just was its own entity and John had been as possessive of it as Sherlock. He knew that. Sarah had changed it. Not only was he sure Sherlock wasn’t happy about it but he himself had realised a growing frustration in the fact that he couldn’t see Sherlock as often. He had missed that time they shared, and he had even found himself starting to resent Sarah for it. For the fact that he knew Sherlock and Sarah weren’t going to get along and he had to choose. He supposed some of this argument was his own frustration coming out too. He wanted to take it out on Sherlock and couldn’t seem to stop himself. A part of him hoped Sherlock might be the one to admit it first. If he pushed hard enough.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock replied, starting to pack up some books. John was sure he was angling for a break in the conversation to make his retreat.

“Then tell me,” John said, sitting down finally in a show of interest.

“You’re being ridiculous John. I’m not jealous. I’m completely fine with it. She seems perfectly lovely.” Sherlock tried to sound as sunny as possible and it didn’t suit him. John didn’t like it at all. Sherlock was avoiding all eye contact as he said it, stacking books and pushing notebooks into his satchel.

“How would you know? You don’t even talk to her! You don’t like her. You’ve made that very clear. I know you,” he spat, hoping to elicit a bigger response.

“You don’t know _everything_ about me,” Sherlock retorted, and it stung. John felt a stab in his chest at that. He wanted to be the only one to know everything about Sherlock. Even as his best and only friend. He sat there speechless for a moment. He wanted to say something just as hurtful back, but he couldn’t.

“Maybe not. Maybe I don’t know everything. But I know you’re hiding something,” he tried.

“John, honestly. Just leave it. I’m sorry I’ve been … distracted lately. But so have _you_.” Sherlock was definitely better at firing the insults and cutting right where it hurt John the most.

“You’ve been rude to Sarah every time you’ve seen her. I’m dating her Sherlock, of course I’ve been distracted. And now you’re not answering my calls. How am I supposed to see you then?” John offered.

“Okay. Fine. You want to do this?” he checked briefly and squared his shoulders, arms crossed defensively. “I don’t like her,” he finally admitted.

“There. Was that so hard?” John retorted back quickly, then swallowed hard, processing it as he tried to pretend it didn’t bother him, his arms crossing his body defensively too in echo of Sherlock’s position. They were as stubborn as each other.

“I don’t know – _was_ it? Was it hard to _hear_?” Sherlock said cruelly, his eyes narrowing angrily.

John took a breath and flopped down resting his arms on the table in defeat realising he didn’t want to fight Sherlock.

“You really don’t like her?” He looked sad, disappointed now.

“No. I don’t. She’s not good enough for you,” he said bluntly and a little too readily, then went back to fussing with his books to avoid eye contact.

“Well, she’s the only person in a wide mile that’s had any interest in me in a long time and I … god, Sherlock!” John finally let out in frustration, rubbing his hands over his face. “Why can’t you just let me enjoy it? It’s been … hard enough without you making it harder,” John admitted.

Sherlock swallowed. He hadn’t meant to be so cruel, but he was angry at John, for finding him. For wanting to have this conversation. For wanting Sarah. He just didn’t know how to be comfortable with any of it.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock finally said, looking John in the eyes at last.

They sat there awkwardly across the table from each other. Just looking into each other’s eyes.

“It’s not really your fault. _I’m_ sorry. She’s hard work. It’s exhausting honestly. And I miss our usual routine – you and I. Everything was … simpler with you,” John let out, exasperated.

Sherlock smiled to himself. “I didn’t mean to make things harder. Honest.”

“You don’t really. It’s not you at all. Dating is hard work. If you don’t like her, you don’t like her. I can’t force you both to be friends if you can’t stand her,” John said sadly.

“I didn’t say that. She’s not that bad, I just …” Sherlock didn’t know how to finish the thought.

John looked into Sherlock’s eyes and he seemed to be almost pleading. He never coped well with expressing himself as it was, let alone expressing his thoughts on John’s girlfriend without offending either of them. He was struggling.

“Sherlock, it’s fine. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have yelled. I just … I need my best friend back.” John tried to be gentle.

“I know, you’re right,” Sherlock agreed, nodding. But he sounded sad about it. John wondered if this was irreparable. _Was he going to have to choose between Sherlock and Sarah?_

They sat for a while in silence, at an impasse.

“Are you seeing her tonight? Sherlock finally asked.

“No, she has a thing,” John mumbled, non-committal, shrugging his shoulders.

“Right,” Sherlock nodded, with nothing more to add.

They sat together quietly again. Strangely it felt more comforting than awkward. The library was fairly quiet at this time of night, but John could hear some activity near the front desk. It was getting close to dinner time, so people were finishing up their day and packing away or borrowing books.

“Do you want to … get a pizza or something?” Sherlock suddenly offered.

“You’re hungry?” John was surprised. Sherlock sat with the question for a moment. Like he maybe regretted asking.

“I could eat,” he ended up confiding.

“You’re _actually_ hungry?” John raised his eyebrows in shock.

“It happens sometimes,” he confessed. John gave him another surprised look. This was odd behaviour for Sherlock. Normally John had to force him to eat anything when they spent time together. Especially when he was focussed on course work.

“Okay, sure,” he agreed, partly just to see what would actually happen.

“I’m not really getting anywhere here anyway. All the books of any use have been borrowed out,” Sherlock admitted, in a kind of explanation – as if that gave any clue as to why he was suddenly offering to eat food.

“Right, well do you need a hand?” John asked him, gesturing to the books still strewn over the table.

“Sure. I will take these ones,” he said as he handed a pile to John and finished packing away his other books and pens into his leather satchel. John laughed to himself. Sherlock was always immaculately dressed, and with an expensive leather bag. Sometimes he wondered how someone like that could ever think much of John in his old jumpers and scuffed shoes. On scholarship. He felt like a bit of a charity case honestly, but somehow this man had deemed John interesting enough and worthy to spend their days together, studying and sharing friendship. And John had missed him so much. But they were from different worlds. Sherlock would never think of John as anything more than a friend. John knew that. He wasn’t in the same league as Sherlock.

Once Sherlock had borrowed what he needed, they walked silently together out of the library, John carrying half the books, Sherlock with his satchel and the other half of the books. _For someone who hadn’t found anything useful, he still had a large stack of books he was taking home,_ John thought to himself.

John couldn’t think what to say – after arriving in such an outburst, and after not seeing this man for weeks, there was suddenly just a comfortable quiet between them. He didn’t want to interrupt it. It was just nice walking together. Since he had come into the library, the sun had gone down and the dusk light had dropped to an early evening dark, with the campus lights glowing yellow at regular intervals along the path. The sky was clouded, so there were no stars out and there was a faint rumbling of thunder in the distance. John could see people heading to cars or walking to the bus which was a bit further down the walkway. People were heading home for the night. Further along the path, they turned a corner, to a darker laneway. The lights were less well maintained in this part of the campus, so people didn’t frequent it, but Sherlock had always liked to take this path through the campus as it was more private. It was their usual route – John knew it well, walking it without even thinking. The two of them would stroll here often and talk through scientific theories or other homework. He had missed that so much. As they walked along, the thunder became more frequent and seemed to be edging closer, the temperature dropping ever so slightly. John huddled the pile of books closer to him as if it might give him some more warmth from the chill. The breeze began to pick up around them, the leaves on the ground dancing about at their feet. A sudden flash of lightning closer than expected, surprised them, grabbing their attention.

“Is that …?” he asked Sherlock, the sound getting louder and closer by the second. They both turned to look behind them. Although the path was dark, the sound was unmistakable. Heading towards them was rain. Very heavy rain, by the sounds of it. The storm had reached them, travelling in their direction at an alarming speed. They could hear it behind them, like a herd of charging stallions, about to run them down. They glanced at each other and then at the books in their hands.

“Oh, I didn’t bring my umbrella,” Sherlock lamented. “The library books!”

As the rain hit them, they started to run. They were too far along the path to go back to the library and Sherlock remembered there was an undercover area up ahead, so he ran, and John followed. Sherlock pulled his leather bag and extra books against his body and wrapped one side of his coat around them, John placing his pile of books under his jumper in a weak attempt to protect them. The rain was heavy enough to hurt their faces and they squinted against the deluge, trying to keep an eye on the path ahead. They finally reached the safety of the alcove. It was a strange little nook cut into a hill, with a semi-circle of curved cement and a tin roof. A few event posters graced the wall, but had faded and were well out of date, some peeled back at the corners to show remnants of older posters still. Sherlock had always wondered at its purpose as he passed by on their walks. With no table or benches, it was just a strange little space, perhaps unfinished, with a mysterious purpose. In any case it was perfect for what they needed: shelter. The curve of the wall protected them from the rain, heavy enough to hurt their ears as it attacked the tin roof above. They struggled to catch their breath, between fits of giggles, unable to speak. Sherlock finally put his books and his bag down and ruffled his hair, dripping all over his shirt and the books they had tried so hard to protect. The rainwater landed on the cement floor and made dark, almost artistic, patterns across it.

John was reminded of a dog shaking its coat after a bath, and he shook his head to himself at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. He brushed his own jacket off a bit and let out a sigh. “Oh, that was ridiculous! What just happened?” he asked as he laughed again.

Sherlock was watching John intently. “Picked a good day to borrow a pile of books and forget the umbrella,” he laughed to himself. A quiet chuckle which rumbled inside him and resonated in John as well, echoing against the cement surroundings.

“Sure did,” John smiled. As he looked at Sherlock, he noticed there was something else in the way he was looking at John. He couldn’t put his finger on it. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how. And then the look disappeared just as quickly, as if he’d imagined it. They stood there just heaving breaths and looking at each other.

John pulled the books out from under his jumper finally and placed them on the ground on top of Sherlock’s pile, leaning back against the wall again beside Sherlock.

They both looked at the pile of books there on the ground, joined together. Their laughing died down, their breathing returning to normal. The sounds of their breathing bounced off the curve of the alcove, only the noise of the rain on the roof to accompany it.

“John. I’m sorry …” Sherlock finally said, not making eye contact, just focussing on the books, “… about Sarah.”

“I know,” John replied, looking over at Sherlock, who finally turned his head to make eye contact.

“If Sarah makes you happy. Then I’m happy for you. Of _course_ I am,” he said formally, looking back down at the ground. Suddenly the air between them had changed and the conversation had become serious again.

John looked at this man. This wonderful friend he couldn’t live without, who had tried to tell him that Sarah wasn’t right for him. This friend that had avoided him for weeks, even though he had no other friends. Sherlock did not seem to be able to look him in the eye. Just leaning there, head down, curls flopped over his eyes and dripping rain water down his face. His coat had droplets of water all over it as well, and John was fascinated watching some of the droplets soak into the coat, and some roll down it, his curls adding more droplets to the wet patch on the ground that was forming around them both. As Sherlock breathed in, the curls would move slightly away from his face and then as he exhaled, they would just touch his cheeks again, forcing droplets to slide down his skin.

John didn’t know why, but he suddenly had the urge to reach out. He pushed himself off the wall and came to stand in front of Sherlock. With Sherlock leaning back against the wall, John had a height advantage for a change, and he stared at the curls more closely, fascinated. He took a step closer, standing just between Sherlock’s feet, which were spread apart to balance his weight. Sherlock looked at him, confused as to why he would step inside his personal space like that.

Then without speaking, John reached his hand out. Sherlock flinched as his hand got closer.

“What are you …?” he asked defensively. John made eye contact with him for a second.

“Just …” he began, with a firm look. Sherlock searched his eyes to see what John was thinking. John thought in that moment that he looked so lost and yet somehow hopeful. “Just _let_ me …” and John reached out and touched the longest curl holding it between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing the moisture out of it and feeling the soft texture of Sherlock’s hair against his finger. The water from the end of his curl fell into the palm of John’s hand and trickled down his arm under his jacket, the cold water tickling his skin. He swept the curl back and placed it behind Sherlock’s ear, tenderly, eyes on the curls the whole time instead of looking at Sherlock, his hand lingering there. Sherlock was transfixed. He couldn’t understand what John was doing. His breathing was shallow, he was sure if he took in a bigger breath it would actually make John vanish or run.

“I love these curls,” John said simply, using his thumb to sweep across Sherlock’s cheek to remove some of the water still there.

When he finally looked into Sherlock’s eyes, they were slightly scared and John was reminded of a stray animal – that slightly hopeful look, mixed with the expectation of disappointment. They stood there not moving for what felt like the longest time. Just the two of them in this tiny shelter, the heavy rain the only soundtrack, no one for miles around.

John made a decision and leaned in.

“John …” Sherlock said, almost in warning but he was interrupted as John pressed his lips against this scared creature, not heeding his plea.

Sherlock’s lips were unexpectedly warm, and John let out a noise in surprise. He pulled back to check in with Sherlock, who had closed his eyes, so he added his other hand to the other side of Sherlock’s face to cup his jaw gently on both sides and kissed him more firmly this time.

Despite the warmth on his lips, Sherlock shivered. John wanted to check on him, to see if he was cold from the rain, or terrified, but there was no way John was going to stop now. The fireworks that went off inside his chest at just that small contact surprised him. For a brief moment he felt dread, that maybe he had actually just destroyed their entire friendship properly. Laying waste to it with a pretty big sledgehammer by pulling this move. It wasn’t something he had really thought through, or ever thought he would act on beyond his own imaginings. Sherlock had given him no inclination that this was something he wanted, other than some pretty intense staring, but who the hell knew what that meant. So, this was a pretty colossal risk to be taking. John had never kissed a man, had never wanted to. But something about Sherlock had always intrigued him. And yet with no idea how Sherlock would feel about this, John had leaned in. He was almost too scared to stop and see what Sherlock’s reaction was.

Just as he realised he would need to pull back and face a possible tirade, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, pulled him closer against his body, and opened his mouth to allow John in further. The sudden change in this gentle kiss to his clear acceptance for more was electric. John let out a moan unintentionally and moved his hands down Sherlock’s neck, to the large lapels of his jacket and gripped them in his fists to get leverage. The two of them grabbing on fiercely now. Their kiss became more frantic, and John couldn’t resist letting his tongue graze past Sherlock’s teeth to mingle their tongues together. The new taste sparking even more excitement in John. Sherlock’s hands wandered up and down John’s back in encouragement, and John loved the feeling of it. He suddenly felt so protected and adored. Their intense friendship had always felt almost addictive, and John could never get enough of Sherlock. He never understood it. And now finally, it was like this made sense. Completely made sense. He had crossed a dangerous line and now there was pretty much nothing left between them. And it felt so completely wonderful and _right_.

Sherlock moved his hands up to John’s head and gently pushed him back to end the kiss abruptly.

“John … wait, what are … w _hat are you doing_?!” Sherlock whispered, suddenly looking scared.

“I just always wanted to …” John was in a dreamy content state, not really thinking at all.

“You don’t want this,” Sherlock said abruptly.

“Why not?” John was confused. They were perfectly happy a moment ago and he tried to push forward for more.

“You have Sarah,” Sherlock reminded him, killing the mood. The realisation hit him hard and his head dropped, shaking from side to side as if that might change the situation.

“Oh _Sarah,_ ” John lamented, leaning his forehead in to rest against Sherlock’s.

“Yes, you don’t want to do this John,” Sherlock said kindly, his hands dropping from John’s face, but slowly grazing his way down John’s shoulders and arms and stopping at each of his wrists to hold on in a sign of reassurance.

“Do _you_?” John asked, lifting his head to look Sherlock in the eyes, hopeful.

“What?” Sherlock seemed also a bit confused and lost in thought.

“Do you want … _this_?” John needed to hear Sherlock give him some indication that he wasn’t crazy for thinking they might actually pursue this.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. Well he knew what the answer _was,_ but he didn’t want to tell John and ruin the relationship he was currently trying to be in.

“John, I don’t do relationships. For many reasons …” Sherlock began with his standard response. He had regurgitated it many times to anyone that asked. He had even used it with John, he was pretty sure, in one of their many conversations on the topic of relationships. He almost hated himself for saying it aloud again. Especially to John, especially in this moment. It was a protective measure, a reflex he said without ever really meaning it.

“Sure, I’ve heard you say that a dozen times. But … do you … _want this_.” John wasn’t fooled by it for a second. Sherlock was slightly proud that his best friend knew him well enough to look past his bluster and really understand. He was afraid to admit to it though. _Could he finally admit this to John?_

“I’ve _always_ wanted this,” he said so quietly, the noise of the rain almost drowned it out. And that was all the reassurance John needed. He grabbed Sherlock’s collar and kissed him harder again. Sherlock grabbed the back of John's coat in his fists and pulled him closer still and the kiss was passionate and completely out of control.

“Sherlock … I’ve missed you. _So much_ ,” John said between kisses, completely overtaken by how amazing this was, and how confusingly _right_ it felt.

Sherlock pushed him back again. “We shouldn’t do this. Not here. Let’s at least get out of the rain and the cold, so I can kiss you properly. It’s freezing! Baker Street?” he offered.

“No sod that, it’s too far. My dorm is closer,” John said, stealing another kiss before turning and grabbing the pile of books. Sherlock took half off the top and they stood at the edge of the shelter, taking in the weather as if nothing had just happened.

The rain had settled somewhat but was still persistent. John was sure he didn’t care anymore, he could have floated to his dorm and not felt another thing, aside from his wildly beating heart.

“Ready?” he asked as they steeled themselves to start the run in the rain again.

“As I’ll ever be,” Sherlock replied with a cheeky grin and John realised he wasn't just meaning the rain. They were venturing into new territory. And Sherlock was on board. John had never felt happier and more excited.

They ran back out into the rain, both letting out a cry as the cold of the rain hit them again. The campus was quiet, most people obviously had found their way to shelter already and it felt so odd to be running so far and see not another soul. Their shoes made a measured clicking sound as their soles connected with the layer of moisture on the ground, occasionally making an extra splash as they hit a larger puddle. John could feel the moisture seeping through his shoes and into the socks, the cold starting to creep through to his skin.

Finally, they made it to the dorms, and Sherlock followed John up the stairs eagerly and down the corridor to his room. There were sounds echoing through from other dorms. Loud conversation, some banging, some music. Everyone was indoors and enjoying their evening, dry and warm. Gun shots from a nearby dorm startled Sherlock. 

“That’ll be Anderson. He’s studying criminology and seems to think that obsessively watching old crime movies counts as research,” John said with an exaggerated eye roll and they both snickered together. He always played them too loudly. But John was somehow relieved at the noise which would make their arrival discreet. The last thing he needed was prying dorm residents.

John reached his room, and his end of the corridor was much quieter. Sherlock preferred the quiet stillness at this end. As John tried to unlock his door, his wet fingers fumbling with his set of keys, Sherlock leaned in behind him and planted a small kiss on the back of his neck. John’s head dropped to the door in response.

“This bloody key!” he exclaimed in frustration. Sherlock leaned his head against John’s neck and laughed into it, sending shivers down John’s spine. Finally, the key found its mark and slid in and he turned the knob quickly, keen to get them both inside. The weight of Sherlock leaning against him made them both fall forward into the dorm unceremoniously, barely managing to catch themselves from falling to the floor. The books however, failed and fell from their hands to make a scattered pile on the rug at the entrance.

“Oh, the books!” John exclaimed in concern as he pushed the door shut. Sherlock didn't stop to check, but instead grabbed John’s face and slammed him back against the door to kiss him properly in earnest.

John moaned from the sudden contact they both had been waiting desperately for. He grabbed at both of Sherlock’s coat collars and started to peel the coat back from his shoulders. Sherlock moved to give him better access to tear it off him and throw it to the floor. The coat, extra heavy from the rain, made a satisfying thud on the ground and the two of them giggled between kisses. Next the wet scarf was peeled off, revealing his long white kissable neck. John couldn’t resist kissing him there.

“We’re both soaked through,” John managed between kisses. “We should get all of this off.”

“ _All_?” Sherlock teased.

“Mmmm,” was all John could manage as Sherlock took his mouth again.

Sherlock pulled John off the door with his coat collar, and started to do the same, coat and scarf off, and returned him back into position. John didn’t even mind being pushed hard back against the wood. The slight pain of it was completely erotic. But he wanted control, although he was enjoying Sherlock being so assertive with him. He quickly toed his shoes off, relieved to get some of the moisture off his feet. He then pushed Sherlock backwards and over to his sofa whilst maintaining eye contact. He eased Sherlock backwards onto the cushions, straddling his hips and beginning to unbutton his own shirt and take it off before leaning forward to tackle the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock grabbed at John’s back, running his hands up and down his shoulder blades, his skin was warm but damp from the wet shirt that had been against it. He found his way down John’s back to the rim of his jeans and he worked his way around the front to the belt buckle, furiously trying to open it. John sat back up to watch Sherlock at work, and the two of them stared into each other’s eyes, breathing heavily as he worked it open. Finally, with success he opened the belt further and tackled the fastening on John’s jeans, unbuttoning the top and grabbing at the zip …

* * *

  
John was thrown from the moment and sat up with sudden alarm, back in the session with Claire. The contrast of having been on a different couch at night, in the dark with Sherlock, to suddenly being in her bright room, still on a couch but a very different situation made him feel dizzy. He looked at her momentarily confused at how abrupt the change was before leaping from the couch and running to the corner of her room to empty the contents of his stomach onto the only thing nearby – a potted plant.

“Ugh,” he moaned when he was done. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” He was mortified.

Claire greeted him in his position in the corner, putting her hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently with one hand, and offering a tissue with the other.

“John, it’s perfectly okay,” she reassured him.

“It doesn’t feel okay. This is completely ridiculous,” he huffed out in frustration.

“We’re going to take this in small steps. I told you that,” she reminded him. “What you have seen, is a big step in the right direction.”

“My stomach didn’t seem to think so,” he said in cold frustration, moving back to the couch to put on his shoes and jacket angrily.

“No, but the fact your brain is remembering some of these memories in detail is a good sign. The fact that it let you relive some of it is a huge step forward.”

John was beginning to hate her positive outlook. He was furious with himself, with the situation. He just wanted to get out of here. “I don’t agree. I’m … I’m …” he couldn’t find words to string together right now. His brain still reeling from the memory of what he had been experiencing: a potent mix of eroticism and disgust, and the disappointment that he had been ripped from the memory.

“It’s okay John, use your words to express how you’re feeling,” she encouraged him.

“I’m … sorry about your plant,” he spat. And with that he stormed out of the office.

_[“I’ve always wanted this,” he said so quietly, the noise of the rain almost drowned it out. And that was all the reassurance John needed. He grabbed Sherlock’s collar and kissed him harder again.](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1hTbVp3phdLB4vNC147gElnw1DNFc1aug/view?usp=sharing) (Artwork by Anke Eissmann @Khorazir)_


	6. Reality Hits

Sherlock had waited reluctantly at home today. He was trying to be supportive of John, who had been happy to go alone to therapy. Besides, he hated that waiting room – that sterile, beige, all-too-quiet waiting room. Sitting there being eyed up and down by that insipid receptionist was unbearable and Sherlock always had to resist the urge to scream. He did it for John though, and he never complained. They had been going every fortnight to see this therapist, whilst juggling their studies and trying to figure out living together. Their relationship was oscillating between functional and strained, depending on the week. Sherlock was thrilled just to have John back, but it was becoming harder to keep John’s spirits up. The longer they were together without being able to operate as a normal couple, the harder John was taking it. Sherlock thought normal was boring anyway but he was running out of options to reassure John and he was becoming terrified that they might not survive this. He hoped that by staying away, John might feel less pressure at his sessions. Although now, he was realising that waiting at Baker Street was actually _worse_ than that awful waiting room. John’s appointment had been hours ago, and he had not come home yet. Sherlock had resisted the urge to text or call, trusting that John would be home when he was ready.

So he spent his time waiting, split between his violin, an experiment on the kitchen table (which John would definitely not approve of), some crap telly and trying to read ahead in his textbook. He imagined it was somewhat like a gym circuit – rotating through each task until he was bored and moving to the next one – cycle and repeat, _ad nauseam_. He had observed people in the park participating in the strange ritual of circuit training, but it was only now that he recognised the similarity. He had made it to the couch for the end of a “circuit”, his silk dressing gown draping off the side of the sofa and his long legs (in his comfortable striped pyjama pants) bent up. The soft t-shirt he had worn, riding up slightly to show his ribs, but he couldn’t be bothered to fix it, as he lay idly reading from his text book. _The people who wrote these books really were idiots_ , he thought to himself. Reading had at least briefly taken his mind off John and his lateness.

That was, until he heard the downstairs door slam shut and the familiar sound of John’s sigh as he took his coat off at the door and contemplated the stairs. Sherlock made a concerted effort to stay put, to behave as if nothing was unusual when John entered. He could already tell something wasn’t right though, just by the sound of his feet on the stairs – heavy and uneven. John pushed awkwardly into the room, stumbling a little as he entered. Sherlock looked over the top of his text book and made eye contact with John. He was inebriated for starters, the smell of the liquor wafting in with him and the pungent smell of second-hand smoke. The scent made Sherlock’s toes curl as he pushed the urge for a cigarette down into his Pandora’s Box of bad habits. John had obviously been at the pub. Sherlock opted for the easiest route – to ignore the obvious and play devil’s advocate for now, for John’s sake. Before he looked back down at his text book, he caught the lazy movement of John’s eyes over his form laid out on the couch, pausing to take in the exposed ribs and licking his lips. Sherlock pursed his lips to prevent the satisfied smirk he felt and returned his eyes to his book.

“How did it go?” he asked casually, hoping he made it seem more spontaneous than it felt.

John didn’t answer, he just rolled his eyes and stalked to the kitchen without a word. Sherlock continued to watch over the top of his book but made sure to be inconspicuous about it. He wasn’t going to do anything to upset John. His mood had coloured the whole apartment upon entry. It was murky and heavy, and Sherlock was not qualified to tackle it. John took one look at the experiment on the kitchen table and let out a loud sigh of frustration.

“Bored, were we?” he called over his shoulder, not looking back for a response. He was already becoming used to life with Sherlock. He understood this was part of the terms of living with his mad genius. Still, it grated on John that the kitchen was such a mess when he was in a mood already.

Sherlock could hear him slamming cupboards and storming around the kitchen in a temper, mumbling and cursing to himself. After a particularly loud slam of a cupboard that didn’t quite connect, Sherlock deduced that John may have connected the door with a finger instead.

“Shit!” John yelled out. “Stupid, buggering door.” Followed by a proper slam this time.

“Everything all right?” Sherlock tried to sound breezy.

“Fine.” He stormed out to the lounge with a bottle of scotch and a glass balanced in one hand. He was shaking the other injured hand furiously, pausing to suck it in his mouth to try and ease the pain, then flopped inelegantly into his chair.

Sherlock was concerned that John had evidently already been drinking but was planning to carry on. _Considering it was only late afternoon,_ _it must have been a doozy of a session today_. Sherlock felt a little pang of guilt that he had not been there with John, which may have been enough to stop him from falling down whatever rabbit-hole he had apparently decided to fall into now.

“You want to talk about it?” Sherlock asked, without making eye contact, continuing his forged perusal of the textbook. He could feel the hot fumes coming off John from across the room. He was not going to step a foot out of line.

“Not particularly,” John said flatly.

“Okay,” Sherlock replied, returning his eyes to his book, but flicking sideways glances at John to monitor him. John was deep in thought and very cross. Sherlock could tell he was itching to say things but also so angry he couldn’t let anything out. They sat there in silence while he poured out a large serving of the scotch. The first glass he took in one full gulp. Sherlock raised his eyebrows but kept quiet and focussed his eyes on the book he had long stopped reading. The second glass he poured, he took more slowly. Fidgeting with the glass in his hand, John observed how the late afternoon light from the window played off the angles of the crystal tumbler, creating reflections on the carpet and changing the colour of the amber liquid inside the glass as he moved it about.

“Although I will say this …” John began suddenly, as if they were midway through a conversation. “You _never_ liked Sarah.” And he pointed an accusatory glare over at Sherlock, catching his eye. He knew Sherlock wasn’t really reading. Sherlock decided his best move would be to go along with John in the state he was in, for now at least.

“True,” he admitted, holding his glare.

“Why did you have to be so … ugh. Just so … _YOU?_ ” John spat.

Sherlock decided this didn’t require a response. He raised his eyebrows again surprised by this new side to John. Well actually, it wasn’t really _new_ , if he was honest. When they were together _before_ John had many a frustrated tantrum. Even during these last couple of months as he dealt with sharing the flat and coming to terms with the frustrations of various forgotten memories between them, he had become grouchier. Sherlock thought it was quite adorable really – they both had their moods. But he also liked to think it was a sign of John’s improving memory – a part of him was returning to “normal”. So, he never begrudged his moods. He was concerned about what had brought him to this state now though – something to do with Sarah, it seemed.

John evidently saw something cross Sherlock’s face unintentionally, so he explained. “I had the pleasure of walking through our little fight in the library today.” His attention turned back to moving the liquid around the glass and not looking at Sherlock.

“Oh?” Sherlock took a minute to think about it looking into his book and trying to fast track his own memories, his brow furrowing with the effort, until it came to him and he realised. “ _Oh_.” He looked over at John, his eyes suddenly lighting up with the memory.

“Yes exactly,” John said sculling the remains of his glass and pouring another. Sherlock clearly remembered. Even without looking, John could tell it was written all over his face by the movement in his periphery.

“I mean, it _started_ badly. But I thought it ended up pretty ok,” Sherlock finally commented. “Didn’t it?” He gave a gentle grin, trying to lighten the mood. For him, it was a pretty _good_ memory – their first time together.

“I wouldn’t know,” John growled, taking another sip of his alcohol.

“What do you mean?” Sherlock looked over at him, confused.

“The usual. _You_ know,” John retorted. “I didn’t make it through the whole thing, did I? What always happens. I’m not sure Claire will want me back after I threw up in her pot plant.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the start of a laugh popping out and he covered it by closing his textbook loudly and sitting up on the couch to give John his attention, clearing his throat quickly. “Oh.”

“Yep.” John punctuated the thought with a very loud plosive, and then licking his lips to take in the remnants of the scotch.

“John, it’s okay,” Sherlock tried to reassure him. They had been through this a dozen times. Every time they lay in bed together and anything physical was initiated, John would have a panic attack and end up running to the bathroom to be sick. They had managed to become more comfortable over time. Sometimes they could kiss, often they could cuddle up to one another for comfort, but always clothed. Always with boundaries. Always very restrained. Sherlock had never been a particularly over-sexed person. John had really been the only person to inspire any of those feelings in him, and he was quite comfortable just not having that in his life. He was not happy without _John_ in his life. But anything extra was something he could wait for or live without if he had to. He knew John wasn’t quite the same as him. This was really bothering him the most.

“It’s really not. It’s really not _okay_. I can’t even … I can’t even _observe_ it during hypnosis,” he lamented angrily, rubbing his face with his free hand as if scrubbing across his eyes would fix anything.

“Yes, but it feels real to you when you’re there – it’s not just observation, John. How far did you get?” Sherlock asked before kicking himself for pushing the point.

“It doesn’t matter how far,” John said “I never get to the end. _That’s_ the point isn’t it?”

“Were you enjoying it at least?” Sherlock hoped asking might help. He kept his distance, but he thought John seemed open. The scotch was relaxing him enough to talk.

“I don’t know, _I don’t know,_ Sherlock.” John was frustrated. _At me? Or at himself? Or at the situation?_ Sherlock tried to figure out.

“I felt panic. I felt bile rising up in my throat,” John said, more to himself.

“Yes, but did it feel _good?_ Exciting? Any of it?” Sherlock tested. He realised he shouldn’t keep pressing but it was playing on his own insecurities now – this very real fear that John didn’t find him attractive at all. That John’s parents may have in fact, succeeded.

John was silent.

“I mean I only ask because … well because maybe … you really don’t even want that any more … with me,” he continued, struggling to say it aloud.

John laughed but it held no joy, it was bitter. “Oh, I _liked_ it, Sherlock. I _wanted_ it. I wanted _you_. I didn’t want it to stop.” He was looking at Sherlock and his eyes were dark and almost … hungry. It made Sherlock swallow hard.

“Well there you go. I mean, do you ever … feel that way with me _now?_ When we try to …” Sherlock asked but was afraid to finish, or to hear the answer.

“I don’t even know Sherlock! I can’t concentrate on it, I feel confused. It’s like my brain stops me from even going close. My head hurts _all the bloody time_ at the moment – constantly thinking and analysing and trying to remember. It _hurts_. Just don’t okay – just stop.” He closed his eyes to punctuate the point, like he couldn’t bear to have to think anymore.

“John. It’s all right,” Sherlock repeated, not knowing what else to say.

John sculled the last of his glass again, looking at the bottom of the empty glass with anger.

“Is it though? _Is it?!”_ His voice growing louder and with a much harder edge to it, almost in warning.

“Yes … of course it is,” Sherlock replied a little scared. John was getting fired up now and he probably shouldn’t have forced this. “It will just take time.” Sherlock’s voice shook a bit, uncertain of the right thing to say.

John sat there fuming, nodding at the sentiment. The nod grew bigger and more determined as if he was solving the puzzle internally, weighing up many options, until he finally snapped. “Aargh!” John leapt up and threw the glass at the wall. Sherlock flinched at the unexpected act but was relieved John had thrown it at the _other_ wall and not at his head. It shattered with an unsatisfactory splash of glass and John sniffed with rage. He looked around himself frantically for something better to throw. Grabbing the bottle off the side table, he hurled it with alarming fury and a loud animalistic roar of pent up frustration. The effect of this second attempt was far more dramatic, with the remainder of the liquid flying in all directions, glass landing on the floor, the table, everywhere. Sherlock flinched again, his shoulders coming up defensively high, his elbow blocking his face, even though the impact was across the room. In all their time together, John had never snapped this badly.

“Fuck _time_ Sherlock!” John levelled him with the last of his anger before he started crumbling. “We’ve lost enough time. I’m sick of taking everything in little steps. And waiting … so much bloody waiting. I want … I want _all_ of it … I want all of _me_ back … and all of _you_ back … I want _everything_! I can’t … I can’t stand it! How can you stand it!?” he finished, angry tears welling up in his eyes. He dropped his head into his hands, standing there so broken and Sherlock could see John’s shoulders were shaking a little from tears that had started, but that he was resisting.

Sherlock stayed on the safety of the couch at a distance. “I can stand it … because I love you,” he said quietly. “I knew I loved you from that first day we met, and you ordered that ridiculous coffee.” He laughed quietly. John looked up from his hands, quiet tears staining his cheeks. How could Sherlock always be so strong and so hopeful – even in the face of all this?

“Sherlock I …I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to _fix_ this.” He was lost, he had reached his limit.

“You don’t have to fix anything John,” Sherlock reassured him calmly.

“I can’t keep doing it. Not like this. If I’m going to be with you I want to be with you, properly. You deserve someone that can be with you _properly_. I’m too broken.” Sherlock closed his eyes as John’s thoughts resonated with him. He stood, slowly walked over and carefully reached out to John, starting to place a hand on his upper arm.

“Don’t.” John stepped back; hands raised defensively. “Please don’t. I can’t … not now. I’m angry at myself and at the world and everyone in it right now. I’m so angry I can’t _breathe_. I can’t think straight. Please don’t … because I just don’t think I can take it right now. I just need … to be alone.” And with that he turned from Sherlock and walked up to his room. The spare room. Which he never used. The room they had always promised would be his any time he needed space. Space he had never wanted. It stung Sherlock. It hurt that for the first time since they had been at Baker Street, he had decided to use it now, of all times. John punctuated his arrival in the room with a loud slam of the door. Sherlock flinched again at the surprisingly sharp sound it made. He wasn’t sure if John was angry at him or at the situation, but his pulse started to race with fear nonetheless.

All he could think to do was walk to the kitchen, get the dustpan and a cloth and start cleaning up the glass. There was glass all over the floor around their work table and scotch splattered on the wall and the floor. He focussed on getting rid of the evidence of John’s outburst. Hopefully John would regret this later and it wouldn’t do to have him feeling guiltier about it, by needing to clean it all up. He knew John would be angry at himself. For starters, that was his good bottle of scotch he’d just decimated, not to mention the crystal tumbler. Sherlock sighed to himself as he cleaned. He thought this must be how John felt every time he had to clean the fridge or the kitchen table from one of Sherlock’s experiments, and he shook his head to himself, mentally promising to be better at that. He probably wouldn’t change, but he would make a better effort. He would start by tidying away his current experiment when he had finished with the wall.

Once everything had been cleared away, Sherlock stood in the middle of the lounge feeling inadequate again. He wanted desperately to check on John but was unsure of how John would react to the intrusion. They had never used that room before, other than to set it up and change the sheets. Would it be all right for him to set foot in that space, given it was John’s hideaway? He decided it was more important to make sure John was okay than to worry about boundaries, so he quietly padded up the stairs and knocked hesitantly on the door. When John didn’t answer, he turned the knob ever so carefully and peeked in. John was curled up on the bed, fully clothed with shoes still on. From his breathing, Sherlock surmised he was asleep.

He needed to keep an eye on John and protect him. He wouldn't sleep anyway without John in the same room, now that he was so used to it. He wasn’t even feeling tired, so he entered the room quietly. Walking over to the bed, he pulled the light blanket from the end of it, up over John’s legs and arms so he didn’t get cold as the night wore on. By the window was an old arm chair with another little blanket draped over the arm. Sherlock decided to get comfortable in the chair, lifting his knees up, his feet on the edge of the seat, so he could rest his chin on his knees. He pulled the blanket around his back and huddled into it. From here, he could look out the window at the starry night and the street below. The moon was almost full, shining into the room giving Sherlock enough light to keep an eye on John in the bed.

Memories of their first night together invaded his thoughts as he relived it himself, remembering how much it had meant to him that his best friend, whom he trusted and loved, had felt the same about him. It was something he had never expected to happen. That night was the beginning of something that changed them both forever. Their friendship had already been so important to him but countless times he had counselled himself out of thinking about John as anything more. For it to come to fruition had been something Sherlock had never experienced before, nor expected. Oh, he was smart, he knew that. _Everyone_ knew that. He could play the violin beautifully. He could read most people and use it to his advantage. But making and keeping friends, connecting with anyone at that level had been the one thing Sherlock had never really mastered. No one really understood him. Until John. He let his mind wander over many wonderful moments they had shared. He had wanted so badly for it to last forever – the two of them against the rest of the world. He had been so angry at himself for letting his guard down and beginning to believe that things might go his way. And before he knew it, things had been not only ruined, but decimated for all of them. He had resisted allowing John back into his life again out of fear mostly. The fear that he was somehow cursed and everyone he cared about might end up damaged because of his own selfishness. But even with amnesia, John was a stubborn git who seemed to sense there was something important between them. Sherlock would never be able to express how much it had meant to him that John had pursued him relentlessly and led them here.

A movement from the bed alerted Sherlock to the fact that John was stirring, disturbing his thoughts. He stayed very still in the hope John wouldn’t wake up in earnest. He had no idea how John would react to him being in the room right now.

“Sherlock? Is that you?” John asked to the dark room, tentatively, sleepily. Sherlock sat for a beat before accepting that he needed to respond.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” Sherlock confirmed, not looking at John, his eyes fixed on the street outside. He was relieved to hear John sigh from across the room – it sounded like a good sigh, not his usual frustrated sigh. “I’m sorry, John. I know it’s your space … but I couldn’t leave you like that. I was worried.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry, Sherlock. I should be the one apologising. That wasn’t fair to you at all before. None of that was directed at you. You know that, right?” John asked as he rubbed his face with his hands to wake himself up, moving himself to the edge of the bed.

Sherlock unravelled himself from the chair and walked over to sit beside John. He quietly took John’s hand in his and rested his head on John’s shoulder in a sign of support, without a word.

“Every time I go to therapy, every time I learn something new, I live through those moments … and it feels like I’m getting somewhere. I feel like when I come out of it, I’m remembering not just what I’ve seen, but it’s like my head has been restored from an old back-up. A full memory, with all the details, with _extra_ details that I didn’t see in my hypnosis. I know my head is being pieced back together. And I want that,” he sighed. After pausing for a moment, his inhale encouraging him on, he took in the scent of Sherlock’s hair. The familiar smell spreading a warmth through his chest. “How long is it going to take before I’m pieced all the way back together though, so I can give you what you deserve? I’m so sorry Sherlock. I’m angry at myself. I’m angry that I’m doing this … to you. And I’m worried that we won’t be able to fix this. And we won’t ever …”

“You think I care about that? John if all we ever have is this, as it is now, then I will still be completely happy. I never expected someone like you to want someone like me. Just being in the same _room_ is enough. And maybe one day, you will want more. And I will be ready. But I’m not asking for that now, I’m not expecting that.”

“I know. But _I_ want that. I want to be with you. I want …” and Sherlock lifted his head from John’s shoulder briefly, hopeful to see what John wanted, but then the thought was lost again. “Fucking hell, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock put his head back on John’s shoulder and they just sat there together in silence, the moonlight creating a pattern across the floor in front of them from the window.

“Will you … will you tell me some more memories? Now that I’m awake?” John asked gently, calming down.

“About you?” he checked. Sherlock had taken to telling John stories, pieces of information as a weekly activity – sometimes after therapy, sometimes just when John needed to hear something from his past. It seemed to ground him, to hear facts, to hear stories. To hear anything that reassured him he was a real person with a past.

“Please. It helps.” He smiled, and Sherlock could hear the smile without seeing his face, could feel it in the shift in his mood.

“Well,” Sherlock swallowed, and closed his eyes to think, then smiled, sitting up. “You hate Mexican food.”

John let out an unintended snort. He loved the little things Sherlock remembered about him.

“Always red wine, not white wine. _Scotch_ on a bad day …” Sherlock tilted his head, “then again, that’s not hard to guess after today is it? I think the flat may smell of scotch for a while.” He chuckled, giving John a nudge with his body.

“Sorry,” John said, sounding ashamed.

“I’m only teasing! It’s all right John, really. I’m hardly one to throw stones,” he reminded John. But before any more could be said on that, he continued. “Oh! You hate opera. _Hate_ it. Mycroft spent a whole Sunday family dinner justifying that as the core reason why I should not be with you. It was quite funny,” he sniggered to himself.

“We had Sunday family dinners?” John asked, turning to look at Sherlock surprised by that.

“Yes, unfortunately. Painful,” he replied. “You didn’t always come, but _that_ one was quite memorable!”

John smiled, not sure what to say, with no memory of it. Just the image of himself and Mycroft arguing about opera and Sherlock, was mind-bending.

“You’re ticklish,” Sherlock continued, disrupting John’s imagery.

“I am not!” John countered, turning away from Sherlock with arms crossed before he could even stop to think if he knew it to be true or not.

“You _are_. On your right side – third rib,” he argued, confidently leaning back to rest his weight on his hands behind him, his arms spread so one was behind John on the bed, at the ready.

“ _Am not.”_ This time it was a challenge, and John already felt the mood between them lifting.

“Oh, I beg to differ.” Sherlock accepted the challenge and crept his hand up the back of John’s jumper and shirt, finding the mark easily before John had time to react, flinching from the feeling. His hands were slightly cold which made it even more of a jolt to John’s senses and he couldn’t help giggling.

“Stop it!” he cried, unable to stop laughing.

“What? This? But you said you aren’t ticklish John,” Sherlock teased, continuing to move his hand over the spot, not needing to do much to get the ultimate reaction from John.

“Stop it, Sherlock, stop!” John cried, and he tried to twist away, grabbing at Sherlock’s arm to stop him tickling and causing them both to fall back against the mattress, laughing together. They lay beside each other quietly as the laughter died away, until there was just silence again.

“You’re the only one who knows that,” John said simply, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“So it seems,” Sherlock smiled, looking at John.

And John looked at Sherlock and smiled at that too. They lay there together for a minute, both looking awkwardly back up at the ceiling, their legs slightly tangled together.

“Thank you,” John suddenly said. “I’m sorry for scaring you before,” and he glanced over at Sherlock for reassurance.

“It’s okay. Are you feeling better?” he asked, eyeing John with concern.

John answered by reaching across and running his hand through Sherlock’s curls, pushing them back away from his face, the way he liked to. “Yeah. I’m okay. I just feel like the more I find out, the more memories from my past I unravel, I feel like I’m slowly getting the _old_ me back. Which is what I wanted. What _you_ wanted. But then … there’s not enough of me back yet to feel like I’m really me. And the _new_ me I had built up as a coping mechanism unravels a bit with every part of the _old_ me that returns. So, I can’t be the new me _or_ the old me. And I’m caught in the middle. I don’t feel grounded anywhere. Does that make any sense? And I don’t want to let you down.”

“John.” Sherlock gave him a stern look. “You could never let me down. Okay? You need to hear me when I tell you that. There is no one else for me, but you. There never has been and there never will be. I’m just here. For as long as you’ll have me.”

“I’m not letting you go anywhere,” John said firmly, and Sherlock believed him.

“Good,” Sherlock said, relieved, placing a kiss on John’s forehead before sitting back up. “You know … I can fill in some gaps for you … from that memory. That first kiss, that first time … was our … _first time_. Maybe I could tell you …”

“I don’t know if that will help, Sherlock.” John had understandably given up, and sat up again, moving to the edge of the bed as if he was ready to flee the conversation already, but Sherlock had an idea that had come to him while he had been waiting in John’s window chair.

“Do you want to know what _I_ remember about that night?” he continued gently, shifting to kneel up on the bed, leaving some space between them for now, so John didn’t feel threatened.

“Sure …?” John’s head dropped into his hands in defeat, despite his willingness to listen. Nothing ever worked. He was beyond help. This wasn’t going to change anything.

“I think, John, that you like to be in control. You don’t feel like you’re in control _now_ , but you liked to be in control. With us. Maybe you just need some of that back? Everyone has been dictating to you where to go, what to do, how to do things and you’ve been letting them, because you feel a bit lost. Because you don’t _remember_. But maybe you just need some of your control back. You always liked to be in control.” It had not occurred to John to even consider asking Sherlock’s advice about how he was feeling, and he was a little impressed at Sherlock’s emotional intelligence on the topic.

“I don’t know how …” he offered, turning back to look Sherlock in the eyes, offering his trust and willingness to at least listen, but losing confidence and turning his back again to look at his hands in his lap – this useless body that betrayed him every time he even tried to get close to the man he loved.

Sherlock crawled a bit closer, so he was just behind John on the bed now, looking down at John’s back, which made John a little uneasy.

“Well, _that_ night John … that first night. _You_ started things … in the rain. You took my curl in your hand, you took the lead. _You_ kissed _me_ ,” he reminded John.

“Sure. Okay,” John said, slightly annoyed. He knew this, he had seen that in the session today. He didn’t need reminding.

“And then we came back to your dorm … and I …” Sherlock leaned in and kissed the back of John’s neck. Gently. John closed his eyes, the tingling sensation it created, running down his spine. He took in a hiss of air at the unexpected contact.

“But when I tried to take the lead and kiss you …” Sherlock moved his lips to just behind John’s ear to talk softly, sending more glorious chills down his spine and making his head all fuzzy, “… _you_ wanted the control. Because you wanted me to be all yours. And I am, John. I am _all_ _yours_. You have all of me.” Sherlock’s voice had dropped to a low hum, and he didn’t move his lips from the side of John’s neck.

It triggered something in John that made the hairs on his whole body tingle. Suddenly the saliva had disappeared from his mouth and he could barely speak. “All mine?” John barely opened his mouth, his voice husky. The stillness in the room made it easy to hear him and Sherlock closed his eyes in relief when John responded.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered quietly back, nodding slowly.

John felt the movement against his neck. He couldn’t bare it any longer, he stood and turned so he could look at Sherlock properly. With Sherlock kneeling on the bed, John’s eyes landed right at Sherlock’s long glorious neck, the tingling on his own neck still lingering. He needed to touch that neck. He put his hand on Sherlock’s cheek first and then stroked it gently down to his long, white neck and Sherlock arched into the touch like a cat enjoying a caress. John was fascinated by the reaction.

“Is this _neck_ mine?” John asked gently, for reassurance. He couldn’t help but lean in and kiss it. Sherlock responded with a sigh, having never thought John would go along with this.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, a little thrill at how John was almost in a trance now, not his usual ball of nerves and tension. John’s hands wandered along his shoulder to Sherlock’s dressing gown and a finger played with the edge of the silky fabric, gently folding it back between his fingers. He was briefly reminded of the rainy night and the curl he played with between his fingers – that same silky sensation. His eyes glazed over, fascinated by the fabric, and then his eyes moved across to Sherlock’s visible collarbones. Sherlock watched John closely, the intensity he had now focussed on Sherlock was creating a reaction all of its own in Sherlock’s stomach.

“And what about …” he swallowed audibly, a little nervous. “… this collarbone?” he leaned and placed a gentle kiss to it.

“It’s yours,” Sherlock said softly, his voice husky and barely producing sound either. _The way he's looking at me,_ Sherlock thought _._ John was suddenly enjoying this game and gaining confidence. He pushed the dressing gown and some of the pliable t-shirt fabric to the side to look at the pale skin at the front of Sherlock’s shoulder. The contact of John’s fingers with the delicate skin eliciting an intake of breath from Sherlock.

“This shoulder? Is … mine?” He kissed it gently, holding his lips there for a second longer than he needed to, taking in the scent of Sherlock’s skin. He hadn’t really given himself permission to do any of this properly while they had been living together and he was marvelling at the sensations all of a sudden.

“Uh-huh.” It had not gone unnoticed to Sherlock that his plan had worked better than expected and now that John was actually finally doing this, he was struggling to make his brain function and words come out.

John stared, fascinated, as he pushed the silk fabric of the dressing gown until it fell off Sherlock’s shoulders. He followed the tracking of the fabric with his hands down Sherlock’s arms, as it glided off.

“These arms?” he asked, the warm contact of his hands against Sherlock’s arms made Sherlock close his eyes. He could barely breathe.

“Yours,” Sherlock answered but he didn’t move a muscle, didn’t dare.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hands and brought them up to his eye level, looking at them like he had never really seen them until now.

“And these hands? They’re mine,” he said, speaking directly to them.

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock whispered.

John placed a kiss on the tops of his hands, and then turned them over to kiss each wrist, the feeling of his lips lingering on Sherlock’s pulse points. Sherlock could feel his blood thudding heavily through his system and he wondered if John could feel it with his lips. John stared at them for ages as if deciding what he wanted them to do. Finally, he guided Sherlock’s arms up above his head, and Sherlock complied. John slid his warm hands back down Sherlock’s arms, down his chest to reach the edge of his t-shirt. He took it slowly up Sherlock’s body to remove it. As the shirt passed over his face, John paused to place a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth, but he didn’t linger there.

“Mine,” he said simply. Sherlock nodded and swallowed hard but couldn’t speak.

John pulled the shirt off and threw it to the floor, returning his hands to trace back down Sherlock’s up-stretched arms and back down to his chest. Sherlock lowered his arms slowly, not wanting to startle John out of this process. He was conscious that this could all go south very quickly if John had one of his reactions to this situation after everything tonight. But it all felt so good, he wanted to let himself enjoy it. There was no backing out now.

John leaned down and kissed his ribs. “These ribs belong to me.”

“ _Yes_.”

And he pushed Sherlock backwards onto the bed, climbing on to the edge, to join him. Bending forward and continuing to trail down his chest, John paused. As this was reaching a point where he would normally panic, he just paused for a moment, breathing slowly. His fingers found the waistband on Sherlock’s pyjama pants. They were already sitting low, so his hip bones were protruding. Unexpectedly, John leaned down and growled softly, “These hips are _mine_ ” before placing a kiss on one of them.

“ _Oh god, they are_ ,” Sherlock let out, all sense of control gone. John had him transfixed. They had never succeeded in getting this far. Not in five years, nearly six years even. Sherlock had missed John. So much. He’d missed _this_ John. The confident John who could never get enough of him. Now that they were here, and John was exploring, by god, he needed this.

John looked up nervously to check in with Sherlock, but Sherlock was already in ecstasy, head tilted back, eyes closed in pure unexpected pleasure. He was becoming quite obviously aroused by it, but John didn’t comment. He just started to drag Sherlock’s pyjama pants off and Sherlock lifted his hips out of old habit, to assist John. John let out a gasp when he discovered that Sherlock was already naked underneath. Quickly sliding them right off, his hands travelled all the way down to Sherlock’s feet, appreciating the muscular legs on the journey. “These legs. These are also mine,” he said fondly.

John’s strong hands ran back up to his hips and suddenly pushed Sherlock, forcing him over onto his stomach. Sherlock let out a gush of air in surprise. John needed to touch as much of Sherlock’s skin as possible … running his hands over Sherlock’s neck, then shoulders and down his back. Sherlock let out something like a purr.

“And this. _All_ of this is mine too,” he continued.

“ _John …”_ the intensity of all this touching, these emotions, and the friction against the mattress was driving Sherlock crazy.

“And this …” as he ran his hands down and paused at Sherlock’s exquisite bottom, Sherlock could feel himself getting very _close_ just from John’s words and touch. It had been so long. Too long.

John left the bed and took off his jumper and shirt and pushed off his shoes. Sherlock looked sideways to check he wasn’t leaving. “I want all of you. _All of you_ Sherlock,” he said intensely, returning to the bed to finally lay beside Sherlock on the mattress.

“You _have_ all of me,” Sherlock promised, almost on a sob, failing to stay composed.

“You. Are. All. Mine.” John struggled to articulate it with the effort and the excitement that was building.

“ _Oh god, yes_. I am, John …” Sherlock was struggling to control his impulses too.

John kissed Sherlock’s shoulder and ran one of his hands possessively over Sherlock’s back. “All mine,” he said to Sherlock’s skin, sending shivers across Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock closed his eyes and John suddenly grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him passionately. The restraint all gone. It was the kind of kiss they hadn’t really shared for the longest time. Full of excitement and desire. Sherlock turned towards John and pulled at him to be closer. John had kept his jeans on, and Sherlock used the waist band to pull him in extra close, their chests now skin to skin. The warmth from John spreading heat against Sherlock’s skin which had chilled from the night air. Sherlock could feel that John was also aroused and the friction of the two of them so close together was magnificent, his jeans against Sherlock’s nakedness electrifying. John held Sherlock’s face, alternating between kissing him, and looking into his eyes with pure hunger. Sherlock grabbed at John’s hips, wedging him closer still, holding him in place roughly and John was … _enjoying_ every minute of it. The pressure just enough as they moved gently against each other. Their collective moans of approval edging each other forward.

“ _John …”_

“Sherlock I … I’m … _this is so_ …”

They didn’t even need any more explicit touching. Just the friction between them and the feeling of their skin against each other, their involuntary sounds and the increasing pace of excitement. It was enough to suddenly send Sherlock tumbling over in an unexpected climax, letting out John’s name on a moan, which pushed John over the edge as well.

“Oh Sher … _mine_ … oh … oh … oh … my … goooodddd,” John let out and it was like he had finally released something that had been so tightly held against his chest, for so long. He could breathe at last. He couldn’t help the sob that came out after it and he lay there shivering for a moment, tears of utter relief and joy escaping.

Sherlock just held him and stroked at his hair, his own breath needing time to slow. They lay there together, tightly embraced, not able to speak or move for the longest time.

Finally, John let out a stuttering breath as his emotions calmed. “Mine,” he said, one last time, eyes closed and still in a state of shock and ecstasy, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s chest.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied with a contented smile, kissing the top of John’s hair, relief seeping out of his every pore. The two of them shocked they had finally made it past this seemingly insurmountable hurdle. They just lay there in each other’s arms breathing quietly, peaceful.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock finally asked.

“Like I’m finally in control,” John said with a smile.

Sherlock’s answering smile was so wide and so full of relief. He was not a believer in God, but he couldn’t help looking upward as if thanking something – the universe, the fates, a deity of some kind that had _finally_ given them a reprieve.

“Will you stay in here tonight? With me?” John asked a little cautiously.

“I told you. I’m not going anywhere,” Sherlock answered simply.


	7. The Blogs Run Out

Sherlock woke up slowly, as the light from outside started to tickle his nose and flicker in front of his closed eyes. As the fuzzy thoughts in his head started to come into focus, he was momentarily confused about his surroundings. The smell, the light, the furnishings … this wasn’t his room. The memory of last night slowly started to weave into his thoughts and he turned over in the bed quickly in excitement to check if it was real. But John was not there, and he couldn’t stop the disappointment creeping into his chest. Had he imagined the whole thing or dreamt it? He was naked and under the blanket. So his memory should be correct … he hoped so. There had certainly been _someone_ sleeping next to him and the pillow beside him smelt of John’s shampoo. _Definitely must not have been a dream._ He momentarily smiled to himself at the thought. He started to worry though, if John was not here, maybe he had changed his mind afterwards? Maybe he didn’t know how to tell Sherlock to go – so he had snuck away?

The only way to find out would be to go down and face John – if he was even there. Resisting the urge to just wrap himself in the blanket and waddle down naked, he decided some clothing might be a safer option, uncertain of the landscape. He pulled on his pyjama pants and dressing gown, not bothering with the shirt and padded out of the room quietly. As he neared the bottom of the stairs, he could hear the sounds of John’s terrible single finger typing. He decided not to go straight to John, the bathroom was calling to him anyway. There would be a certain safety alerting John to his presence first without interacting, in case John wanted to run out before the inevitable confrontation. He was pretty certain he could feel John’s eyes burning into the back of him as he walked to the bathroom, padding along on the balls of his feet, like a child sneaking around after bedtime. He didn’t really know why but he couldn’t stop himself.

Once he had relieved his bladder, he splashed some water on his face, trying to make some sense of his curls in their state of disarray. He scrunched his face up as he took in his appearance in the mirror, he was in such a fluster. Using his reflection as a confidante, he took a breath to steel himself, whispering: _“You can do this Holmes,”_ to his reflection, before walking out again into the corridor.

“Morning,” John called from the lounge room. He _sounded_ bright – certainly not a tentative note in his voice, Sherlock observed. Even so, he hovered at the end of the hallway, not wanting to come any closer.

_This is ridiculous_ , he said to himself. _We’ve been living together for months now, just get out there Holmes!_

He walked timidly across to John, who was smiling. _Probably okay then,_ he reassured himself.

“Morning,” he finally ventured shyly. He felt like he had just been on a first date with this man or woken up after a strange one-night stand. This man he had known and loved for years. It was crazy. He took a moment to observe John at the desk, in comfortable track pants with warm socks on his feet and a thick green woollen jumper which made his shoulders look muscular. It gave off a heady mix of comfortable and snuggly, mixed with strength that made Sherlock's mouth water for a moment. _Focus_ , he told himself internally. “How long have you been up?” he asked, scrubbing at his curls absently and yawning suddenly, trying to avoid the awkward feeling in his chest.

“Five a.m.” John shrugged, looking at Sherlock sheepishly with a grin.

“Oh seriously? Did you sleep at _all_?” Sherlock said with concern, feeling a little guilty. There was a sense of comfort though in this sort of normal conversation that was much more usual for them. He was able to slip easily into this space without panicking and would try to gauge how John was feeling first.

“Yes, actually. I slept better than I have in ages. I woke up so refreshed! I didn’t want to disturb you, so I came down and made a start on my assignment work. I was actually about to take a break and read through some more blogs … if you wanted to join me?” he offered and his face was open and genuine, no sense of obligation written there.

Sherlock walked closer and looked at the laptop screen to see John had indeed been busy with the assignment. He had a quick read over the screen. It was good. John wrote well. He never gave himself enough credit on his course work skills. He supposed John would probably be intimidated having him as a comparison. Sherlock had always been well ahead intellectually to just about anyone he met. But he didn’t want John to undervalue himself or think there was any competition between them. In his own right, John was bright and talented and had a human element to his work that Sherlock would never be able to compete with. He envied it sometimes. He had never really told John that. But seeing his work on the screen gave Sherlock a sense of pride for this man who was making a go of everything despite all he had been through. He was really trying so hard to still get ahead and doing so well. He didn’t know how to express that in words. He probably never would tell John.

“Tea?” he offered casually instead, trying to keep things as non-committal as possible until he figured out John’s impression of last night.

“Hmmm yes please,” John hummed appreciatively. This was their usual morning ritual. Nothing helpful in that. The daily life of two flat-mates was something they had always fallen into with ease. They liked each other, they were comfortable around each other and were happy to be independent of each other. This didn’t help Sherlock place where John’s head was at yet, though. Reading social cues was not always his strength. Normally John would translate for him. It was so much harder when _he_ was the subject in question.

“Some toast?” Sherlock offered, as if that was going to give him any more information.

“Sure.” John gave him a smile and a nod. His eyes narrowed as he watched Sherlock standing there awkwardly.

Sherlock nodded, not knowing what else he could say to check in with John and he turned to make his way to the kitchen. Before he could take a first full step away, John’s arm shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, catching him off guard. He let out a gasp in shock and looked down at John’s hand, grasping him firmly, before looking at John’s face to make eye contact with him. John’s eyes were firm, hungry and intense all of a sudden.

“Sherlock …” John began, his eyes making no attempt to hide the way they raked over his bare chest peeking through the open dressing gown. He let go of Sherlock’s wrist and stood up out of his chair to close the little bit of distance between them.

Sherlock didn’t dare say anything yet.

John reached up and touched his face. He said nothing, but his eyes communicated everything Sherlock had needed to hear. He moved his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down to kiss him. A slow, romantic kiss, full of love. Sherlock hummed in appreciation and brought his arms up to John’s back to hold on. When the kiss was done, they stayed there, standing in each other’s arms for a moment.

“I hope I didn’t worry you when I wasn’t there this morning?” John said gently.

Sherlock rolled his eyes “Pfft, of course not.” Trying to sound casual as he laughed gently. He shook his head, embarrassed at being caught out, blushing furiously. “No?” John gave him a knowing look. Evidently, he had not been very good at hiding the fact that he was nervous. “No, I just … okay yes, maybe. _Maybe_ I was worried,” he finally admitted.

John gave him a scolding look. “What, you think I just callously have sex with a man after stringing him along for … years, and then just _leave_ ,” he joked, “without at least making him cook me dinner first?”

Sherlock couldn’t help the laugh that burst out, relaxing considerably more. The relief at knowing things were okay with them – better than ok – flooded through him. He rolled his eyes at his own silly behaviour. The fact that John was relaxed enough about it to be making jokes was a sign this was a new chapter for them both.

“Oh, I see. Is this your way of telling me I’m cooking dinner tonight?” Sherlock teased.

“Seems only fair,” John said with a sniff, as he let go and headed back to his desk.

Sherlock huffed. “I mean, I’m making you breakfast now. I don’t know if I’d call last night worthy of _two_ meals in one day.” He looked back nervously, to make sure the joke hit the right mark.

John gave him a mock look of offence.

“Well, I might just have to see what I can do to make it worth your while.” He flashed a flirtatious smile, and Sherlock swallowed hard at the implication. He turned towards the kitchen, allowing his dressing gown to make a dramatic swirl as he moved, his insides bouncing around excitedly at the prospect of what might happen later, and set about fixing the toast and tea for them both.

John opened up his blog files. He always felt a little thrilled and a little nervous each time he opened a new one. He had been trying to keep track of which ones he had read and not read. It seemed easier to stop reading them at random and to read in order as he realised it was also helping him piece together a timeline, and the memories that went with it. Between the therapy sessions and the blogs, he had pieced together quite a bit. Sherlock had been helping fill in some of the gaps too which had been so important for them. Even just hearing some of it in his words, from his perspective, had been good for John. They had even realised John was remembering some things all on his own. He was slowly finding holes in the wall of his amnesia. It was still a slow process, but John was starting to feel positive that things were looking up. That things would improve for him. For them.

He opened the next file, ready to start reading when Sherlock was back from the kitchen. As his eyes skimmed it he furrowed his brow and decided to skim further, taking in what he was reading.

“Oh Sherlock … there’s a … there’s a blog in here … from you?” John was confused and looked across to Sherlock who was busily assembling the breakfast. How that man could make an event out of making toast and tea always made John smile.

“What?” He called from the kitchen, not understanding. There was some clattering and cursing going on in there. By the sounds of it the toaster had won that round.

“I’ve just opened a file, that’s not mine. It’s one you wrote!” John said excitedly.

“I did? I don’t remember that …” Sherlock answered as he gathered up the plates and cups onto a tray. He walked back across the room, placing the tray precariously on the edge of his arm chair to the side, so he could pick up John’s tea and toast and place it down beside him. He leaned in to glance over John’s shoulder.

“Apparently you did – you left me a little note to read later. I don’t even know if I ever saw it,” John said a bit sadly at the prospect that this romantic gesture may have gone completely unnoticed all those years ago.

Sherlock moved his tea and toast over to the table and stowed the tray to the side of the room. Normally he would lie under the table, but while they were having breakfast, he decided to pull his arm chair around and sit facing John, so he could eat while John read it out. He got himself settled – the plate of toast balanced on the arm of the chair, the teacup in his hand. “I don’t remember you ever reading that one out to me before,” he commented absently, trying to remember when he did it and what he wrote.

John looked over at him, and Sherlock nodded to push him on as he took a bite of toast.

“Okay …”, he smiled at Sherlock and read on:

_Dear John_

_I don’t know if you’ll ever see this file, but you made the mistake of leaving your computer open while you were in the shower. I’ve been reading some of your blogs while you are out of the room and you really do make me sound better than I am. But now it’s my turn to write my love letter to you and maybe one day you’ll see it, maybe one day you’ll read it. Maybe years from now. Wouldn’t that be funny? It will be a surprise. The last few months together have been incredible, and I just never know quite how to put that in words when you’re looking right at me. But I want you to know how incredibly lucky I feel._

_So here are all the reasons why I love you John Watson:_

  * _When you look at me a certain way I feel like I can do anything, like I’m invincible_
  * _Sometimes I’m really annoying and most people call me an asshole or stop speaking to me. I’ve got used to that. But you just look at me or touch me on the arm and carry on as normal. No-one’s ever done that before. For the first time I don’t feel like a freak_
  * _The way your eyes crinkle when you laugh_
  * _Sometimes I catch you looking at me this certain way and I think you feel the same way, but I’m scared to ask but sometimes I think my heart is going to explode from how happy I am_
  * _You’re so smart, but you don’t know it and I love that_
  * _You cook that thing I like_
  * _The way you order coffee_
  * _Sex isn’t just sex with you_
  * _When you say my name, it sends tingles everywhere_
  * _You’re so caring and patient with people_
  * _With you I’m in very real danger of_



John stopped reading and Sherlock looked up from his tea at the interruption.

“Huh,” John huffed looking confused and scrolling down the page with the mouse.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t know. It finished there. I guess I caught you on my laptop,” John laughed. “What were you going to say?”

Sherlock paused for a moment looking into his tea. “I don’t know,” he said. It was coy. John didn’t believe that Sherlock of all people wouldn’t remember.

“Come on, Sherlock! You wrote it. These are your thoughts. What were you in danger of?”

Sherlock looked John straight in the eye, darkly. “I was in very real danger of falling so in love with you I couldn’t get out if it alive if I wanted to,” he admitted. It was a heavier sentiment than John had expected, and it caught him off guard.

“Oh.” John wasn’t sure what to say about that. He understood the sentiment. He had felt caught in a trap with Sherlock. That he would never get enough of him and never get out of loving this man in one piece. He definitely understood it. But to hear Sherlock admit it, he wasn’t quite ready to be admitting such deep feelings.

“I remember it now. I remember when I wrote that.” His voice had taken on an unusual quality. “Read the next one.”

John didn’t hesitate. He closed Sherlock’s file and quickly opened the next one.

“There’s only a couple left. How did we get to a point where I’m running out of blogs?” John said surprised.

Sherlock only hummed in response. Clearly, he knew more about what was coming. He was watching John intently and it was unnerving.

_Blog – Stupidly Happy_

_I love this man. He’s everything I never expected I wanted. All this time being friends and not realising we had this potential to be so much more. Every day I learn from him. His intelligence is dazzling. And we have fun. So much fun. The sex is … well the sex is pretty bloody amazing. I can’t believe I’m in my 20s and I never thought about men that way before. I don’t think I’m ever going to want anyone else though. I can’t imagine wanting anyone else. I can’t wipe this stupid grin off my face. I’ve been spending a lot of time at Sherlock’s flat in Baker Street. It’s been so nice. We are balancing our time between our studies and each other fairly well. Aside from skipping a few lectures and maybe one late assignment so far! Sherlock’s apartment is nice and central. It’s a bit of a mess but I’ve taken to cleaning it up while he’s working. Mind you, he does these ridiculous experiments which make a bloody mess. But honestly, it just makes me adore him a bit more. He’s a genius. Then when I’m working, he’ll play his violin and it just makes my heart beat in my chest so hard. I’ve never felt anything like this before. I can’t imagine anyone ever being better than this man. For me at least._

“We sound so happy Sherlock,” John said, checking in with Sherlock and starting to feel slightly nervous about whatever Sherlock’s behaviour was implying.

“Keep reading,” Sherlock said simply, not looking at John this time, just looking down, deep in his own thoughts and quite clearly waiting for something.

“What am I going to find?” John asked nervously

“ _Keep_ reading,” He simply said.

John went on to the next entry. With every click, he got more and more nervous. There were a couple of short blogs in the same vain. Happy, in love, domesticated bliss. Uni life. Nothing that would signify Sherlock’s sudden change in mood. Until he came to a blog which made him sit up in his chair a bit taller and really focus. Sherlock looked up at the change in John’s posture. He began chewing on his thumb nail nervously as he listened.

_Blog – Disbelief_

_Sherlock’s brother has been to see me. Mycroft is a special sort. Despite putting on a mostly happy face on Sunday at the family dinner which I came to, apparently, he needed to wait until Tuesday to tell me privately we aren’t suited. He thinks that Sherlock isn’t stable enough to handle a relationship of any kind. But especially with someone who he relies on as a friend. And especially someone like me who was with Sarah until recently. He thinks I might be using Sherlock as a phase or an experiment. It makes me so angry that he would think that._

_I think he’s wrong. I think everything is going so well. I for one have never been happier. Sherlock seems to be happy. We don’t talk too much about feelings and the depth of it. But after years of friendship first, I know he cares for me. And I feel the same._

_Mycroft tried to tell me Sherlock is a drug user. Like I wouldn’t have noticed that if it were true! Not that it would change my feelings about him…at least I don’t think it would. No … it couldn’t. Surely it wouldn’t. I know I love Sherlock. Apparently, Mycroft doesn’t agree. He was telling me stories about Sherlock and drug use – bombarded me with stories of Sherlock in his teen years and later, before I met him. But I don’t think he uses drugs. There was talk of lists and keeping track of what he takes. That I would have to be prepared to monitor all of that if I was going to stay with him. It was utterly ridiculous. I won’t even be telling Sherlock about that. I’m sure Mycroft is just using it as a way to put me off and it won’t work. Nothing can make me change my mind about Sherlock. I’m determined to ignore the information and be content._

John looked up at Sherlock, who was sitting tensely with his eyes shut listening.

“Sherlock …” John didn’t know what to say but he felt he had to try to say something.

When Sherlock finally opened his eyes, he sheepishly avoided John’s eyes, fidgeting to remove some imagined lint from the knee of his pyjama pants. John let out a sigh. Of course, he _knew_ now that what Mycroft had been telling him was all true – after the events that had unfolded. It may have even been a kindness – a heads up.

John let out a loud sigh. “ _Mycroft_.” They were both good at using his name as an expletive. He had that effect on both of them. “I guess he had both of our best interests at heart?” he tried to justify.

“Mycroft can go to hell, as always. _Keep reading_ ,” he pushed, still not looking at John. Instead, he stood and took the empty plates back to the kitchen for something to do as John found the next blog.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what you’re expecting me to find. You’re worrying me,” John said, not wanting to go on.

“ _Keep reading,_ ” he simply pressed again.

John sighed loudly and found the next file.

_Blog – Going Home_

_Well I haven’t written for a while. Things with Sherlock have been a little strained. I have to admit what Mycroft told me has been playing on my mind and now I can’t stop thinking about it. I’m concentrating way too hard on everything he says and does and worrying about it. I’ve even taken to looking about his flat when he is busy, in the hope I might find evidence. I can’t let it go. I can’t ask him. Obviously. I don’t want to tell him I know. And I don’t want to create more tension between them by telling Sherlock his brother spoke to me. I don’t know how to tackle this. But I need to find a way to stop worrying about it. It’s making me behave differently. And I can sense Sherlock is feeling worried but neither of us is saying anything. I’ve been to another family dinner on Sunday and it was excruciating. Mycroft was particularly difficult and kept giving me looks. Clearly, he expects me to be gone already._

_I have decided I’m going for a visit to see my family this weekend instead. On my own. I need a little bit of breathing space to just think everything through. I also will need to tackle how to tell my parents that Sarah and I have split up and that Sherlock is now the person in my life. That I love. I think I still want to tell them that and try to make things work with him._

_I know they are going to have a hard time with it. I mean we have never spoken about it. But I know what their church thinks about it. I know how they treated Harry when she came out. Well she moved out when she was young, only 17 – moved countries to gain some freedom. She doesn’t speak to any of us anymore. That was her way of coping. I really don’t want to disown my parents. I want to be able to bring Sherlock to meet them and be open about it. I want to demand they respect my decision but I’m not sure I’m that sort of person. They are old fashioned. No idea how that will go, but I plan to talk to them about it when I’m there. I think if my mum can look past the fact Sherlock is a man, she would really like him. I know what my dad will say. I’m a bit terrified. But I’ve been feeling a bit uncertain about whether what I’m doing is right – with Sherlock – and I just want to really make a decision one way or the other about this. I need to jump in all guns blazing and commit to it or decide it’s not the right thing for us. Like Mycroft said. I mean, what if he’s right and Sherlock has a drug problem? What if my family won’t accept him – or me? I’m not sure I’m strong enough to win those battles. I have no experience with this sort of thing. Maybe I’m just kidding myself that this was a good idea._

“I saw my parents and I told them about you?” John asked.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He just sat there. Watching.

“That’s the last blog on this USB,” John suddenly said.

“I’m not surprised.”

“What happened next?” John asked, afraid of the answer.

Sherlock took in a big breath. “We broke up,” he stated and looked at John. John couldn’t figure out what the expression was on Sherlock’s face, but it was something like acceptance. Of a past event that he had long had to work through in his own head alone.

“We … but it all seemed to be going well up until that point. I was happy. We seemed happy!” John was shocked.

“Yes, it did seem that way didn’t it? Probably the reason you never got to find my sneaky blog though. Mycroft blames himself. He wanted to warn you and see if you were tough enough to stand up to him. After that you were a bit more distant and then, well then your parents sealed our fate.”

“My parents did?” John had never been more infuriated that he couldn’t remember this to be able to understand what had happened.

“John, things went badly. You ended it. You chose Sarah. I didn’t take it well. I ended up confirming all your worst fears. And then, well you know about the accident,” he trailed off.

“Vaguely yes, from what you’ve told me at least.” John wanted to know more. He _needed_ to know more.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Sherlock announced standing up again.

“Sherlock …” John wasn’t ready to let this go.

“I have to get dressed and go to the university today anyway. My supervisor wasn’t happy with my last draft chapter. My work’s been a bit below par lately while we’ve been going through all of this so I should …” his tone was cold all of a sudden and John didn’t like it. But he knew enough of Sherlock to know it was his way of deflecting and he was well versed in it. He was trying to push John away.

“ _Sherlock_ …” John stood up and walked over to stop him from leaving the room. He placed his hand firmly on Sherlock’s firm, bare stomach, enjoying the fact he had chosen not to wear his shirt. The move was not really sexual, though. More of an assertive reassurance. He ran his hands around to Sherlock’s back under the robe, to hold him in place. Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable and avoiding eye contact.

“Sherlock. That’s the past. Remember that. All of this is just about me piecing this together, in the hope I might have some real memories of my own. And it’s working. I _am_ remembering a lot. But it’s the past. It’s not how I feel now. I’m not doing it to make you uncomfortable,” he reassured.

“I’m not proud of how all of that unfolded, John,” Sherlock said signalling at the laptop on the table with a nod of his head.

“It sounds like I shouldn’t be either. We made a colossal mess of things. But we’re here now. I’m not going anywhere all right? I mean that.” John grabbed Sherlock’s chin and pulled his focus from the laptop on the table to face him and Sherlock finally looked at John, really taking in his eyes and nodded.

“I mean it. Nothing that I uncover from these blogs, or my memories in therapy, will ever change the fact that I am in love with you. Completely. I’m so happy that we are here, that last night _happened_. None of that is going to change.” John was now the confident and calm one and it unsettled Sherlock to realise the tables had turned like that but he let himself smile gently at the sentiment.

“Okay. But I really _do_ have to go.” He pushed back from John to start moving. He was just as disappointed at the lack of contact he had created but he also needed the emotional distance. He didn’t want to start reliving things that were unpleasant and could really ruin the fact that things had finally been going well for them after last night.

“What about that uh … well we were going to … in exchange for dinner?” John awkwardly tried to flirt.

“I’ll be back later, John. It’s okay, I’ll cook.” He gave a reassuring smile. “And we can catch _that_ up after.” He smirked but John felt a little nervous. Sherlock was only partly there and partly deep in thought.

Sherlock headed to his bedroom to get ready. John busied himself, grabbing the tea cups, returning them to the kitchen but feeling a little guilty. He hadn’t really stopped to think how reliving all of his past might take a toll on Sherlock as well. Now that he had no blogs from before to read, he would have to let the therapy sessions piece any more of those thoughts together. He felt a sense of dread at the thought that these sessions were going to be getting close to some very uncomfortable memories. He would have to ask Sherlock to be there with him and he wasn’t actually sure how he was going to take that. After today, John was worried that maybe Sherlock wasn’t ready to tackle the past, to talk about the things that had happened. The last time they had talked about it in any detail, Sherlock had a panic attack. How was he going to manage to get him to be there and hear those things under the watchful eye of a therapist?

Before he could ponder it for too long, his phone gave off an alert.

**Greg:** Mol and I thought maybe dinner catch up at the Fox and Hound tonight? You two in? Greg

“Oh, Sherlock! Professor Lestrade wants to meet up tonight for dinner. Are you up for that?” he called to the bedroom. Sherlock emerged dressed and looking amazing. _How could he toss on an ensemble and manage to make casual clothing look so sophisticated and cool?_ It was one of the things John not only loved about Sherlock but found incredibly annoying. He had gone for his dark blue jeans, a simple shirt and a suit jacket. He had a pair of high-top Converse on to complete the edgy but wealthy look and John thought the effect was devastating. He wanted to take it off him as quickly as it had been put on, but he knew Sherlock was not in the mood right now. He would have to save it for later.

“Sure. I mean, saves me cooking honestly. I don’t know how long I’ll be at the university, so let’s say yes,” Sherlock replied, business like, as he wandered around the lounge collecting up books and items to take and throwing them into a satchel. He was actively avoiding John's gaze.

“We can come home for dessert after …” John tried to flirt again.

Sherlock answered with a strained smile and a nod, which made John a little nervous that it had not hit the mark he intended.

“Will you be okay until then?” Sherlock asked politely, side-tracking John.

“Yeah of course. I have plenty to work on. That assignment’s not going to write itself,” John joked nervously, suddenly feeling incredible awkward in his own space.

Sherlock stood in the middle of the room too, unsure how to leave things. The silence between them was uncertain again. It was clear Sherlock had been put off guard by the direction of the blogs and the conversations that would have to be had to fill in the gaps.

“I’ll be fine. Go!” John decided to say, to reassure him and clear the heavy air surrounding them.

“Okay, I’ll try not to be too long …” and he walked over and gave John a quick peck on the lips.

John took the opportunity and grabbed his face before he could run off, holding him there, lengthening the kiss and drawing Sherlock closer. Sherlock finally stopped fidgeting and dropped his satchel to the floor. He put his hands on John’s hips, pulling him closer in too, enjoying it for a moment. John could feel him physically relax a bit. It was reassuring to know Sherlock hadn’t been completely lost. He had started to make John worry a bit, but this reaction was all he needed, to know that they were on the same page. As they separated from the kiss, Sherlock left his eyes shut, clearly needing a moment to take the feeling in.

“We’re fine, Sherlock. Okay? It’s all fine,” John said to reassure him.

Sherlock let out a breath and opened his eyes to look at John and finally seemed to have calmed. John gave him a smile laced with affection.

“See you later,” Sherlock said gently, and John knew he was feeling better. And then he grabbed the satchel and was gone. John stood in the middle of the room, trying to still his heart.

The fear and love all mingled together was confusing and he just wanted to get some answers so things could finally be put to rest. The tension from the knowledge of what needed to be discussed, was going to take a toll on them both for sure. But he needed to be able to get them past it. The sooner, the better. He grabbed his phone and called Claire’s office. It was time to get things moving.


	8. Dinner and Dancing

They weren’t generally the pub frequenting type, Sherlock and John. They usually preferred the local Italian or some Indian food, occasionally Chinese, but on the whole pubs were too noisy and “full of idiots” as Sherlock would say. Of course, John knew this pub well after his stint last night. He had walked home from therapy instead of taking a cab. He had needed to walk off the frustration and he had passed by the pub. It had looked so warm and inviting and he wasn’t ready to go home and face Sherlock when he was in such turmoil. They had kept the scotch coming and the barman had let him talk out his problems. He wasn’t going to tell Sherlock that he had called Greg, who had already met him here yesterday too. He had unleashed all manner of expletives and frustrations on Greg, who had politely listened, and got John a cab, sending him home to talk it out with Sherlock, as a good friend should.

This dinner was a means for them to have a civilised conversation all together and for Greg to help if it was still needed. Of course it had been Molly’s idea after Greg had filled her in. It was Molly’s classic style – sit everyone in a room together and get things out on the table. A drink with friends would make it easier. She was such a peacemaker. And she wanted to see things work out for John and Sherlock. He was so grateful that she and Greg had been behind them, cheering them on and supporting them. He had never experienced that before, but it meant the world to him. John realised guiltily that he hadn’t even asked Greg yesterday how things had been going with Molly. He had been completely self-centred and well into the bottle of scotch by the time Greg had met up with him. At least that was what he told himself. It was not the fact that he was a thoughtless git having a sulk. He would fix that tonight. He wasn’t sure how it would go, though.

Despite Sherlock agreeing to come out, his mood hadn’t really improved on returning from his day. John had got himself dressed, out of his casual gear and into his nice jeans and he made sure to wear the blue jumper Sherlock liked so much. He even had a shave before Sherlock got home. It was so odd that twenty-four hours ago, John was a mess, feeling so lost and confused and Sherlock had been so sure and confident. Now, after a wonderful night and a lovely beginning to the day, things had taken a strange turn. John felt like he had broken down his biggest barrier and was ready to take on the relationship more confidently, but now something had spooked Sherlock. He seemed to be behaving strangely insecure and was avoiding talking about the blogs.

They had walked to the pub in silence. John had taken Sherlock’s hand and he had accepted it willingly, their fingers mingled and creating a warmth between them. John felt a flood of relief that there were still small signs that they were connecting, but there was a distance between them still that kept him unsettled. The noise from the pub already invaded their thoughts as they approached on the street. John looked to Sherlock and sure enough Sherlock had scrunched his nose up at it.

John gave his hand a squeeze in reassurance. “It’ll be okay. Greg’s looking forward to seeing you,” he said.

“I don’t know why,” he grumbled. “It’s not like we will be able to talk much with that racket going on. I don’t like … people, John.”

John laughed. “I know. Don’t worry. We can always go after dinner if it’s too much.”

Sherlock mumbled something under his breath which John missed but the mood was unmistakable, so he stopped outside, pulling Sherlock short. “Sherlock if you don’t want to … if this is a bad day for this …”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry John I just … I’m just not myself today. You’re right. We should see Greg and Molly. We haven’t seen them for ages. I’ll behave.”

“I don’t need you to _behave_. That’s not … it’s just … I want to make sure you’re okay. Before we go in. Last night was so …” John didn’t know how to finish the thought.

“It was,” Sherlock agreed, and the look he gave John was dark and full of a desire that caught John off guard but reassured him briefly.

“And this morning you seemed …” he continued.

“I was just worried you might have … I don’t know … regretted it,” Sherlock admitted weakly.

“I thought we had covered that. I was _very_ happy with last night,” John reassured him, “but then … the blogs …”

“John … we don’t have to …” Sherlock interrupted uncomfortably.

“I think we _do_ though,” John pressed. “Sherlock, all of this stuff … these blogs, the therapy … it’s all for us. It’s so I can come back to you. I don’t expect that everything will be unicorns and rainbows.”

Sherlock scoffed, shaking his head, but didn’t say anything. John clearly wasn’t understanding something.

“What are you worried about? What do you think I’m going to read, or hear or see?” John asked, a little worried.

“I just … it took me a long time … to recover from everything. I was in a bad place before. And I worry that …” Sherlock trailed off.

“What?” John encouraged.

“I worry that maybe all this talk and reliving it, will make it real again. I don’t know if I can relive it a second time.” His voice was quiet and a little bit scared.

“Hey, hey Sherlock. You don’t need to worry. Last time, we weren’t together. You were like this because we were _apart_. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere. I will be right here with you,” John reassured him.

Sherlock nodded at the ground, not looking at John.

“I mean it, Sherlock,” John said, moving his head to try and catch Sherlock’s eyes and draw him back up. “Don’t start freaking out on me now. You’ve been so amazing, keeping me focussed and being so strong. Now it’s my turn. I’ve got you. Yeah?” John said with a smile.

Sherlock looked up and John was already there, eyes waiting to connect and reassure him. “I’ve got you,” he repeated now that he had eye contact.

Sherlock’s eyes teared up a little bit, but he kept it controlled. “Okay.”

“Okay?” John checked.

“Yep, okay.” He let out a breath. He had steadied himself, nodding. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I’m just nervous about it.”

“I know. So am I. It’s totally understandable and it _is_ terrifying. All of it. But I need you. Okay? I _need_ you.” And he squeezed Sherlock’s hand in his.

“You have me,” Sherlock answered and squeezed back, giving a little smile and squaring his shoulders with a bit more confidence.

“I _know_ I do. Just don’t disappear on me like that okay?” John asked. He needed this man with him.

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed.

“Promise?” John checked again.

Sherlock couldn’t speak but he nodded again, and this time it seemed more confident. Like he might actually mean it. That was all John needed.

“Good. Come here,” John said and pulled him in for a hug. Standing up on the curb, he had a little bit of a height advantage for a change and Sherlock stayed in the gutter to let John be taller for once, melting into the hug he had needed. All day he had struggled to listen and take critical feedback from his supervisor, while his head was well and truly focussed on other things. On John, at home. On those blogs. He had tried so hard not to think through that fateful couple of weeks from their past. To just focus on John, on _now_. He had kept it well locked away. And he did not need all of that to come flooding back out. He had needed this hug badly.

“Right,” Sherlock finally said, snapping out of his funk. “We better get in there and get this over with.” He gave John a dramatic pretend annoyed eye roll. John knew he was secretly a little bit excited to see Greg too. Even if he didn’t show it.

As they pushed through the door, the combination of heating and the extra bodies created a stifling warmth after the cold outside. They began stripping off their coats and scarves, leaving their jumpers on. They stood just inside the door, taking in the surrounds of the pub, allowing their eyes to adjust to the different light. Now to try and find Greg in the crowd. It was still early so thankfully the pub wasn’t too busy or noisy, the music hadn’t turned up to “late night volume” yet. To the left, a table of young ladies were making loud cackling noises at some joke or other. At the bar, there were two older gentlemen drinking pints and chatting. The barman was cleaning glasses and he nodded at John when he spotted him standing near the door. John honestly couldn’t remember the barman’s face from last night. He wasn’t sure if this was a polite “employee to customer” welcome nod, or if it might be the same man he talked the ear off of last night, but he blushed. Something in the man’s eyes signalled that he remembered John and was approving that he had walked in with this man who was obviously the source of yesterday’s frustrations.

There was a group of students tackling a game of pool in another corner. Even over the various noises, John heard Sherlock groan at the number of people. John smirked to himself. Sherlock was really a big child sometimes. His eye caught movement across the room and he squinted across the distance to see Molly waving frantically. He nudged Sherlock and nodded in her direction. Sherlock nodded back in acknowledgment and they headed over to the booth at the side of the bar. It was a bit out of the way and a lot less noisy in this corner of the venue. John was relieved. If they had to shout over the noise, Sherlock simply wouldn’t stay.

“John!” Molly yelled as they got closer, jumping up and running over to hug him before he had even reached the table. “Sherlock! It’s so good to see you both.” She launched herself at Sherlock and wrapped her arms around his ribs, burying her head on his chest. Sherlock looked over her head at Greg, slightly shocked and John laughed at how awkward he was, being hugged that aggressively. Greg worked his way awkwardly out of the rounded booth seat and stood up to greet them, laughing at the look on Sherlock’s face as well.

“John.” He reached out his hand to shake it, which dissolved into a hug between them. Greg judged Sherlock’s mood and nodded to him, not forcing any contact and guided them back to the table. Sherlock did not look like he needed more touching right now.

“Well it’s lovely to see you both,” Greg said as they sat down, shuffling themselves back into the seats.

“You too,” John said happily. “You’re looking really well Greg, and you of course Molly.”

“Well this one is taking good care of me,” Greg said, putting his arm around Molly’s shoulders. “She kicks both your asses as my assistant, by the way.” Molly beamed at this and raised her chin in pride.

Sherlock finally reacted to the conversation, inserting a look of offence so dramatic it was unintentionally comical and they all laughed.

“I mean it helps that she’s a hell of a lot prettier to look at than you two, but she’s also organised my whole office into an efficient filing system. She always keeps me plied with coffee … and she’s pretty amazing at the research too in fact,” Greg said proudly.

“Well that’s terrific,” John said, giving Molly a raised eyebrow to show he was impressed. “Although in fairness, I thought Sherlock was pretty to look at too,” John joked.

Sherlock blushed a little and Greg let out a relaxed laugh.

“Fair enough. Molly tell them your news too,” Greg nudged her.

“Greg and I are moving in together,” She said excitedly.

“Oh wow!” John exclaimed, a little shocked, looking to Greg in surprise. _He really hadn’t let Greg talk last night at all had he?_

“A bit early for that isn’t it?” Sherlock said tactlessly.

“No! Not _that_ news,” Greg fumbled quickly to change the subject.

“Oh! Gosh sorry,” She said embarrassed.

“Not that we should judge, Sherlock,” John pointed his head at him gently.

“That’s different. We have a long history from before, John,” Sherlock justified, looking at the two of them like they were mad.

“I meant the news about the award, Mol,” Greg corrected, redirecting the conversation.

“Oh right, of course,” she let out an awkward giggle, blushing. “I’m getting an award for my paper. The one you read John. They want to publish it.”

“Oh my goodness, Molly! It was so good, you absolutely deserve it. I’m so pleased for you, that’s fantastic news!” John said, excited for his friend.

“Yes, I think she will do very well. Now that Sherlock’s not there stealing all the lime light, some of the other students can shine,” Greg inserted the jab.

“I’m surprised you get any work done with her around all the time like that by the sounds of it, Greg,” Sherlock said indelicately.

Greg didn’t let it offend him at all. “It _is_ hard to concentrate sometimes, sure, but Molly is a workaholic! She really makes me sit and do my work. So, we’ve been very productive _actually_ ,” he said pointedly to Sherlock.

Molly blushed furiously. “I’m sitting right here!” she tried to assert herself. They all laughed but it was good natured and with affection for her.

“Shall we order? Before it gets busy,” Sherlock interrupted a little rudely.

“Yes, you’re right,” Molly agreed. “Why don’t you come with me Sherlock and we can sort that out?”

“Sure – John?” Sherlock checked.

“You know what I like,” John said simply.

“Okay.” Sherlock looked a little nervous but seemed quite proud that he was allowed to just order for him.

“Greg?” Molly checked.

“Bangers and mash, I think,” he said with a grin at her.

“Another pint?” Sherlock checked, pointing to Greg’s nearly empty glass.

“Please,” Greg replied.

“John?” he tried to ask casually but even just looking at him to check something as simple as a drink order, Sherlock could feel an intensity between them. He wanted to take John home now and not have to share him with everyone else in this public space.

“Wine I think,” John replied, with a smile back at Sherlock. He could read the look on Sherlock’s face. They were reassuring each other without needing to say the words. More than that. The look on Sherlock’s face was positively sexual. He was just asking for his drink order, and already John felt like he was sitting there naked. As quickly as it happened, Sherlock turned, and the moment was broken. They went to the bar, leaving Greg and John together.

“Does he know we were here last night?” Greg asked, once they were gone.

“No – I mean he knows I was drinking obviously … the state I came home in! But no … and not that you were here with me. Probably best not to bring it up. He’s been … a bit off today. I don’t want to …” John was nervous, his brow furrowed, still trying to figure out what to do about it.

“Everything all right?” Greg checked.

“Yeah, yes, better than all right,” John reassured him, his face lifting to punctuate the sentiment.

“You talked last night then?” Greg wanted John to know he was concerned after their conversation last night, but still supportive. It was a delicate balance. John and Sherlock were not the types to be open about feelings, but John was in quite the state last night. So angry and confused and worried about losing Sherlock. Greg had found it hard to send him home in that state, but he also knew it was better that he say those things to _Sherlock_ directly, to work through it. The mood between them was certainly a bit tense tonight, though. Greg couldn’t judge if it was good tension or bad tension just yet. It seemed that they couldn’t decide either.

“Hmmm we sort of talked. I mostly just threw a bit of a tantrum,” he scoffed, and Greg gave him a tsk with his tongue in disappointment. “But the night ended well at least,” John squirmed a little as he said it. It was way easier talking about it yesterday with half a bottle of scotch under his belt.

“So, the sex is happening now, finally then?” Greg asked, a little too excitedly, as if his advice had played a part in fixing things.

“Greg!” Molly chastised as she arrived back to the table, overhearing. She slid his beer across the table and sidled in beside him, planting a warning look in his direction and giving him a gentle tap on the chest with the back of her hand.

Sherlock stood holding their drinks, looking stunned and not able to speak. John blushed furiously at being caught talking about it.

“Greg, that’s personal – sorry Sherlock, John. You can’t ask that Greg! Oh my goodness, what are you two even talking about that for?” Molly chastised.

“What? I just want to know that they’re happy,” Greg argued.

Sherlock slowly squeezed into his side of the booth to sit down, looking dismayed and not able to make eye contact with any of them.

“It’s okay Molly …” John was quick to fix the mood. “and yeah … we’re all good, Greg. All good.” And he looked at Sherlock to reassure him, but Sherlock was staring furiously into his drink. John put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh under the table in support, to let him know it was okay and flashed him a smile. _It’s okay._

“And the therapy?” Greg continued. “She’s a good therapist? I mean, is it helping?” Despite talking a bit last night, John was not making much coherent sense by the time Greg had arrived and he thought it was a good chance to ask more about it now.

“Greg!” Molly cried. “Seriously!"

“I want to know how John’s going with it all. With the amnesia – don’t you want to know?” he pointed back at Molly.

“Of course I do but you can’t just ask it like _that!_ _”_ She shook her head furiously. “John I’m so sorry. I mean look at poor Sherlock, he’s about to shrivel up and fall under the table with embarrassment. They don’t want to talk about it!” Molly pushed.

“Molly, it’s fine,” John reassured her. “It’s been going really well, honestly. Thanks for asking Greg. There’s definitely been some ups and downs though. And there’s so much I have to still work through, but it’s really been helping. Mycroft found someone really good. I feel like large pieces are coming back to me now. And Sherlock has been amazing.” He nodded at both of them, and then checked in with Sherlock, giving his leg another little squeeze.

“Well that’s great. Really great,” Greg replied, giving Molly a look of triumph that he wasn’t in fact in the wrong. “And what about _your_ study. Is your supervisor as good as me?” he directed at Sherlock, bringing him back into the conversation.

“Oh, I think he’s okay, isn’t he Sherlock? He’s …” John started, assuming Sherlock wasn’t going to talk tonight.

“He’s an idiot,” Sherlock said bluntly, taking a large swig of his wine. “My professor is literally the biggest idiot at the university, and that’s who they have put in charge. Of me. _Me_. I have put in a formal complaint.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “Sounds about right.”

John chuckled at that. “Sherlock is really trying to say he misses you,” John said, rolling his eyes as well in answer to Greg and they shared a smile.

“Oh Sherlock, that’s sweet,” Greg teased. “You’ll be okay once they get to know you. They’ll realise you’re a genius and then they should listen. Don’t make too many ripples though, mate. The academic community is small. If you want to get that study published eventually, you’ll need contacts. Play nice in the sandbox. I actually have a buddy over there, I’ll give him a call and make sure they know how useful you are.”

Sherlock fidgeted nervously with his napkin. He never knew how to handle people being nice, or how to work out if they were teasing or being serious.

Luckily, their meals arrived just in time to divert the conversation away from Sherlock. Once they had settled into their meals, they fell back into easy conversation as they ate, discussing the ins and outs of their studies, and the differences between the two universities. Surprisingly, Sherlock even got into the conversation and had some good things to say about how he actually missed Greg’s university, criticising the layout of the new library and how it took him longer to find the right articles now. Greg and Molly talked about how they were going to move her belongings in next week and the debacles involved with that. John entertained them with tales of living with Sherlock and the various experiments he kept leaving in the kitchen. Molly caught John up on some of their classmates and funny stories about them.

Finally, their meals all finished and cleared, they sat finishing a second round of drinks and just enjoying each other’s company. John was relieved that Sherlock had settled into things as well and it was just so comforting to sit at this table with friends and feel at home with them all. He honestly didn’t have any memories of ever really having that before, and it felt good.

“Well that was a good meal. What about some dessert – do you have time?” Greg asked.

John could see Sherlock looking tense at the mention of staying longer. He slid his hand back to Sherlock’s knee for a quick squeeze again.

“No dessert for me, I’m full. We should head off soon anyway. I have to finish a reading for tomorrow and Sherlock’s got work from his supervisor today he probably needs to look at, right?”

Sherlock nodded nervously. He would do anything to just get out of here. As nice as it was to see Greg again, these places made him nervous. Conversation made him stressed out, and today was not a good day for him to feign being happy and social. He had been enjoying it but now he had reached his limit. Now the meal was done he just wanted to go.

“Of course, yeah, we have the trip back too, no worries at all,” Greg nodded.

They smiled at each other and just enjoyed sitting together, looking around at their surrounds. The crowd had built up in the eating area and some more people had taken to sitting at the bar.

“It will get busier soon, probably a good time to get out of here before the real crowds pick up,” Greg commented.

“Still, it’s not bad for your local, John. I’d definitely meet you here again for dinner,” Molly interjected.

“Oh, next time we should take you to the Italian. It’s much nicer,” Sherlock answered. Molly smiled with relief that Sherlock was willing to do this again. She never knew if Sherlock had really accepted her as a friend yet. It made her very happy that he was suggesting the next place to meet.

A new song came through the speakers, distracting John from the conversation. “I know this song,” he said absently, trying to place it. They all stopped to take the music in, focussing on it.

Sherlock smiled to himself, shuffled out of his seat and held out his hand to John. “Before we go?” he asked hopefully and very unexpectedly to everyone at the table.

John’s eyebrows shot up a mile. He looked over at Greg and Molly who nodded at him, smiling. It was the most positive Sherlock had been all night. John didn’t want to turn him down.

“I was thinking I could use a coffee first before we head out,” Greg said to Molly as a way of helping. “We can watch your coats. Off you go,” Greg said enthusiastically, giving John a reassuring wink.

John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and let him lead them onto the dance floor. He had no memories of dancing with Sherlock. It had never come up. But Sherlock led him out confidently, like it was something they had done before, more than once. The music was slow and gentle, but every note made John’s heart rate increase. He felt it right in his gut. He had no actual memory of this song and why it had this impact on him, but he knew that he recognised it.

Sherlock only had eyes for John. He was not looking around at anyone else or anything else. John was a little self-conscious that there were only two other couples on the dance floor and they were the only same sex pairing. He was still self-conscious about it all in general – particularly in a local pub like this. One they didn’t know very well yet. As Sherlock found a spot on the dance floor he was happy with, he pulled John into him to get his focus back. He put his long arms around John’s waist, fastening them on his lower back. The gentle intimate gesture took John’s breath momentarily away. They hadn’t been openly affectionate in public like this before. Sherlock’s eyes bored into John, willing him to come along and it made him warm from the inside, a little blush tickled at his cheeks.

John let out a big breath to relax and put his hands up on Sherlock’s shoulders, and the two of them were captivated, looking into each other’s eyes. The rest of the pub faded completely away. They moved gently and slowly to the words of the song. Not taking their eyes off each other.

“This song. Is this …?” John began hesitantly.

“We used to dance to this at home. I’ve never really had the chance to do it out in the open like this with you before.” Sherlock sounded quite chuffed at the prospect, but he was not smiling, the mood was completely intense. They kept their eyes on each other, enjoying the music, the words washing over John and giving him a strange light headed feeling as his brain remembered the twists and turns of the song in a part of his memory he had no control over. As they swayed slowly in each other’s arms, it was just the two of them. Nothing else mattered in that moment.

“Are we okay?” John decided to take the opportunity to ask Sherlock, tentatively.

“Yeah of course we are,” Sherlock said it flippantly, as if there hadn’t just been a tense uncertain day between them. “No, I mean _really_ Sherlock _…_ are we … _okay?_ Are we going to be okay?” John wanted reassurance, needed it right now. It felt so nice to be here like this, in this moment. But he knew Sherlock wasn’t saying everything. Sherlock used his eyes to burn into John more without words. This was exactly what scared John the most. Sherlock wouldn’t talk when it was an uncomfortable topic.

“I mean, a day ago I would have said I didn’t know …” John went on, “… if we would be okay. _I wasn’t_ okay, that’s for sure. And then last night …” He swallowed hard before going on with more confidence, “… and then last night _happened_ … and everything came into focus … for me at least. And in the morning, I thought things were great. I was invigorated … but you … it’s like you’ve just let it get into your head right when I’m ready to give over to it. You’re pulling away from me and it’s … well it’s a bit terrifying actually.” He looked down, he couldn’t say that and look into Sherlock’s eyes right now.

“Does it feel like I’m pulling away right now?” Sherlock asked, squeezing John a bit tighter to him, the warmth between them growing.

“Not right now, no. This is … good,” John smiled up at him.

“John, I’m sorry about today. I don’t know what came over me. You don’t need to worry I’m just in my own head about my own things … it’s not about you. It’s not about _us_. I just need to … there was a lot of things that happened that you weren’t there for. What I went through when we broke up … when I thought you had _died_. When I wasn’t allowed to see you. There’s a lot of things in my own head that I will have to work through. But this helps. Just being with you helps,” he said gently, and he reached up with one of his hands to touch John’s wrist sitting on his shoulder. His fingers stroked absently at the initials embroidered on the cuff of his jumper. The jumper Sherlock had apparently given him. He looked down at the embroidery a little sadly as he did it, but it was clearly meant as a show of support, of reassurance. 

“I think so too. Being with _you_ helps,” John reassured him. “Look, it’s been difficult for me for _weeks_. You’re allowed to have a bad day. I honestly don’t know how you have stayed so strong, for me.”

Sherlock was distracted.

“What _is_ it about this jumper?” John finally asked. Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts, a little embarrassed to be caught out.

“I … gave it to you one Christmas. All your jumpers were adorable, but they were old, worn. I got you this one … when we were … friends. It’s an expensive jumper. Something that would last. You were my best friend. I had hoped it would last, like us,” Sherlock said it wistfully.

“Well it’s comfortable. And I love the colour.” John showed his approval.

“I embroidered the initials on it after we had been seeing each other a couple of months in. Like an anniversary thing. I don’t know, it was silly. I just wanted you to know we were … I don’t know … permanent.” Sherlock blushed and looked up at the ceiling feeling completely ridiculous admitting to it and shaking his head at himself.

“Hey,” John said, getting Sherlock’s attention back. “I love that.” And he punctuated it with a smile.

“Well it didn’t really … go as planned did it? We broke up anyway. Not long after that. It wasn’t enough of a sentiment to keep you,” he said sadly, annoyed.

“Sherlock, it’s a jumper. Just a jumper,” John joked to try and bring him back out of that headspace gently, realising they were heading back down a tunnel he had just started coming out of this evening. “And it _has_ lasted. And well … we don’t seem very broken up _now_ do we?”

“No.” Sherlock realised he was being silly. “No, you’re right. I have to just let some of that go.”

“I’ve booked in to see Claire again later this week,” John blurted out, feeling like now was as good a time as any to broach it.

“So soon?” Sherlock suddenly stepped back from John, leaving their bubble, panicked at the prospect. They had a routine. The appointments had been spaced out well enough that there was time in between to calm things down after an appointment and talk over things. He wasn’t sure he was ready to keep stirring this up – or to broach the things he knew they had to tackle yet. After last night, he was a little bit apprehensive about whether they would get through it all intact.

“Yes, I think we need to – the sooner the better,” John said, stepping back into the warmth of Sherlock’s body and giving his shoulders a squeeze with both hands. “I want you to come, I want you to be there.”

“I don’t know, John.” Sherlock was hesitant, but John started the swaying movement again, bringing him back into the dance and Sherlock followed him absently.

“I think it would be good for _both_ of us for you to be there too, to work through your stuff. With a professional. And I will need you there too.” John thought that might be more persuasive. Sherlock was far better at looking after John, than himself.

“Okay … if you’re sure? If it’s what you want.” Sherlock looked into John’s eyes for some reassurance.

“It _is_ what I want, and I think it’s what you want too – it’s what we _both_ need.” John had a new confidence which was surprising Sherlock. He took in a breath and looked at this man in front of him. He hadn’t seen John be this confident since … before. It was encouraging.

“I love you, John Watson,” he finally said. John reached up and put a hand on Sherlock’s cheek.

“You’re everything to me Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you forget that. You’ve brought me back,” John said gently. “Now it’s my turn to help _you_.”

Over at the booth, Molly had snuggled up to Greg and they sat watching John and Sherlock on the dance floor.

“Look how much they love each other,” Molly sighed.

“Yeah, I was worried last night, that maybe things weren’t going to go well. When John called me. But I think they’re going to be okay. At least I hope so,” Greg said.

“Me too. Oh, I do hope so. They’ve been through so much,” Molly said sweetly. Her friendship with John had been important for her. She didn’t make a lot of friends and having someone so lovely who didn’t think she was irrelevant like so many others had, was so important to her. John had been struggling with his place in the world and she had loved their days studying together and hanging out on the campus. She missed it lately, although now she had Greg and she was very happy. But it warmed her heart to see them like that. John had been so lost because he hadn’t been with Sherlock. Now they had each other again and John had slowly started to shine more. Like his colours had become brighter. The way he lit up when he looked at Sherlock. It just spread a warm oozy feeling all through her to watch it.

“They are both pretty stubborn. This was never going to be something that would beat them,” Greg laughed gently.

“It’s been lovely to see that Sherlock has a softer side,” Molly commented. “When I first met him …” she let out a huff and rolled her eyes.

“Yeah he’s actually far more emotional than he ever lets on. But by god he can be a royal pain in the ass!” Greg agreed. They laughed together.

“Well I think they are so great together,” Molly simpered, snuggling into Greg’s shoulder even tighter, contented.

“Yeah I think so too,” Greg replied, giving Molly a kiss on the top of her head. “And now he gets to be _John’s_ problem. I wouldn’t take him back as an assistant researcher if he begged,” he pointed the compliment at Molly. She lifted her head to look at Greg and the look in his eyes suddenly made her swallow hard. They gave each other a kiss, chaste enough to not draw attention, but just long enough to make them wish they weren’t in this pub.

“Do you think they would mind if we … leave them to it?” Molly said with a blush.

Greg gave Molly a smile. “Give them a minute. But yes, I think we can head out soon.”

The song had changed to something a little more upbeat, but John and Sherlock were in a world all of their own, still dancing to their own song, unaware. John took in Sherlock’s amazing eyes, his long beautiful neck. His t-shirt was sticking out slightly from the neck of his jumper, grazing the edge of his collarbone. The light colour of his shirt drawing John’s eyes there. Memories of last night and getting to kiss that collarbone and touch him everywhere started playing in John’s head. Despite feeling slightly unsure about the crowd in the pub, John couldn’t resist stretching up on his toes to place a short kiss on Sherlock’s lips. He ran his hand over Sherlock’s cheek, then played with the curl on his forehead, lovingly. Sherlock slid his hands up Johns back and pulled him closer, to kiss him properly. John reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck to pull them closer still. The kiss became more passionate and desperate.

All day, John had been worried he had done something wrong, worried that he might not get to do this again with Sherlock. Getting to kiss him now, and properly out in public, gave him an extra thrill. Everyone could see they loved each other. He had no shame about it tonight. All he wanted was to make sure that Sherlock knew how much he loved him – that he knew nothing was going to separate them. As the kiss slowed again, John stroked his hands down Sherlock’s shoulders, then arms and found their home, wrapped around Sherlock’s lower back. Sherlock did the same, running his hands over John’s shoulders and his back and up again to his face and his hair. He was enjoying taking in every part of John, refreshing his memory of all the places he liked to touch John. And of seeing how John responded to it. The control that it gave him was thrilling. He understood why John needed it, that control.

He loved this man, so much. He wanted to focus on John tonight. His mind occasionally wandered back to thoughts of the therapist and the impending appointment and his stomach would give a little lurch. But he tried to refocus back on John, which wasn’t hard to do with John’s hands and lips all over him. The pulse of the music was driving their movements as they explored each other. It was as if it was for the first time. Eyes and hands wandering everywhere.

John finally dropped his forehead to Sherlock’s chest. “Do you think they would mind if we … leave them to it and I take you home?”

Sherlock didn’t stop swaying. He just hummed, and John could feel it vibrate through the bone in his head and travel all the way down his spine. The feeling of them rocking together in each other’s arms had become almost hypnotic and calming. From this angle, they could both look across at Greg, who was also watching them. Molly was cuddled up against him, his arm curved possessively around her and she was chatting away, looking up at him happily. Sherlock gave Greg a nod and Greg nodded back at him. It was an acknowledgement that he was pleased for them. John glanced over at Greg too and smiled. He was happy for Greg and Molly. He was so glad they had come out for the night. He and Sherlock had spent too much time shut up in their little flat, alone together lately. Getting out had given them a much-needed break and unintentionally created an opportunity to finally get some things off their chest. John was sure things were looking up.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock said finally.

“I’ll get the coats, and make our excuses,” John said in a rush.


	9. John's Decision

Sherlock gripped tightly on to John’s hand as they walked through the familiar glass doors to the office.

Their week had settled down nicely and Sherlock had allowed himself to enjoy just being with John. They went to university together, studied in the library together, and in the afternoons, they would come home together. John had returned to Sherlock’s room at night and with that hurdle crossed, the nights were taken up exploring and just getting to know one another again. Every day they spent getting physically closer, Sherlock could see John gaining confidence and even gaining some memories back. It seemed to be helping him. These memories had been taken away because of their relationship, but it was as if somehow the return of their love was helping to lift the veil from his memories, repairing them both in the process.

Sherlock had tried not to think about the impending therapy session all week and most of the time he had managed to stay distracted. But none of that had mattered because they were here anyway, and his pulse was racing. His head felt hot and he could sense the beads of sweat forming on the edge of his curls and at his temples. He was anxious. He wanted to be calm and collected for John’s sake, but he just couldn’t be. He did not want to relive any of the uncomfortable memories that had led him into such a dark space.

“Hey. I’m right here Sherlock,” John whispered to him as they walked towards the counter, giving his hand a squeeze and looking at him with concern. “Stay with me.” Sherlock remained focussed but gave a little nod.

The receptionist and Claire were leaning into each other, talking quietly behind the front desk. As they entered the room, the receptionist stopped and gave them her usual up and down glance, sizing them up, that she always deemed necessary – the one that made Sherlock want to punch her in the face. _Was she judging them for holding hands, for being a couple? Was there something in the way Sherlock dressed that she felt she needed to mentally critique?_ Not knowing frustrated him to no end.

Claire greeted them both with a smile. “John, come on in,” she gestured to her door, “and you must be Sherlock? I’m so glad to see that you came along today,” she said, and she put out her hand for Sherlock to shake it. Sherlock was clearly still a bit shell-shocked and didn’t speak or take her hand. John pulled him awkwardly into the room, flashing Claire an apologetic look.

“Sherlock’s a little nervous about being here,” John said, shooting him a stern look and trying to compensate for his strange behaviour.

“Of course, that’s understandable. Please.” She gestured them both onto the couch, and Sherlock distracted himself with taking in the decor of the office. John was sure Sherlock’s brain had gone completely offline but was encouraged to see he was at least observing his surroundings. He was very nervous about how Sherlock was going to cope. The week had been wonderful, blissful even and they hadn’t talked about the blogs or therapy at all since the pub. John had actively tried to distract Sherlock as much as possible. It was a nice distraction, but now he felt the tension zinging off Sherlock’s body like static electricity and he was genuinely scared for how this session would go.

“I was pleased to hear over the phone John, that things progressed after our last session?” Claire mentioned, leading him to start the discussion.

“Yes, thank god,” John said with a nervous smile. “It seems we’ve got past that hurdle and we have kept that going all week. I’m definitely not bothered by the physical side of things now,” he announced, blushing slightly.

“And Sherlock? How have _you_ found that? Has that helped?” she directed to him, John glancing over nervously.

“Yes, it was … good,” he said stiffly, looking to John for approval. John was confused by Sherlock’s sudden lack of vocabulary. _He really must be nervous_ , he thought.

“Great, well that’s a good start – that now at least you can feel the relationship is progressing and there aren’t any barriers for you physically now. I’m so pleased that has happened so organically. It can sometimes take a long time for patients to overcome that part of it,” she affirmed, looking to them both.

“Trust me, it was long enough,” John said sardonically. Sherlock didn’t know what to say. The mood between them felt very uncomfortable and slightly artificial.

“Right, well I can see you are both anxious about today so why don’t we just get straight into this? Hmmm?” To which they both nodded nervously.

“So, Sherlock, is this your first time observing hypnosis?” Claire tried to get his attention back.

“Uh … yes,” he replied, tentatively, fidgeting with his trouser legs.

“Right, well I’m sure John has filled you in a little bit on how this works already, but just to make sure you are comfortable … you will hear him talking through what he sees – like a narrator. So, we will hear about what he sees, and we just need to sit and observe and listen.” She gave him a smile that he could tell was specially reserved for patients. Sherlock hated those. “Don’t touch him, don’t distract him, try not to react. We just have to be passive observers while he goes under and see what comes of it.” She paused to check in with Sherlock, who was looking a little dazed, his right foot had started to tap incessantly on the carpet in a nervous twitch. “And there’s no need to be scared.” She flashed him a slightly condescending look as if he was a child which rubbed him the wrong way.

“I’m not …” he began defensively, and John put his hand on Sherlock’s knee to stop it. He looked back to her apologetically. Claire just smiled patiently.

“John is completely safe and we’re both right here with him. Aren’t we?” she encouraged. This made Sherlock stop and realise that John was going to go through this as well – even more so in fact and he felt a little guilty at how selfish he had been.

“Okay,” Sherlock said, nodding a little too furiously.

“Right, well John I think with Sherlock here beside you, we will try just sitting in your seat this time, instead of lying down, which is perfectly fine. But just make sure you’re comfortable and you can relax. Sherlock, you too,” she instructed.

John shuffled himself into the cushions. He gave Sherlock a last glance and grabbed his hand to give it a squeeze. Sherlock marvelled at how calm John was being and he wondered if that was for his benefit, or if John always approached these sessions with such a centred focus.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. Sherlock gave him a very scared, very intense look, but didn’t speak.

“Okay John, close your eyes and let’s find that corridor. Just try to relax, don’t worry about Sherlock. You said on the phone that you had a few important events or moments you needed to see … to understand better? So, you know what to do. Think about that time – what you want to know about and lead yourself there. Take your time.” And she relaxed back into her chair, notebook in hand, waiting. Sherlock was impressed at how still and calm she was able to be, and he tried to mimic it, but his eyes were fixed on John, watching him slow his breathing and seeing the muscles in his face relax gradually.

John, meanwhile, had spent so much time worrying about Sherlock and how he was coping, he hadn’t really had time to think about the session for himself until right in this moment, and he started to feel a little nervous as he visualised his corridor. He took a few deep breaths and slowly felt himself relax into the space. Claire continued talking, inserting phrases to help relax him, reminding him of the muscle groups to relax and how to breathe, but the words were very distant. He had become better and faster at slipping into the right state the more times he had come to these sessions. He was eager to get there, to see things. His brain was hungry for information. His mind corridor was not like his usual corridor either today. As soon as he had begun to relax, the corridor had changed into something that was actually like a street. A dark street, with a brick wall on his left side and buildings on both sides. There was no traffic, the night was quiet. The street was lined with large lush trees. He already felt a chill around him in the air, and he raised his shoulders up instinctively to gather body heat and warm himself, as he shivered. The street was strangely familiar, although he couldn’t place it, and as he reached the end of his corridor, he began to turn a corner without thinking. His corridor wall was no longer there.

Turning the corner, he realised he now was on Baker Street, heading to Sherlock’s flat. His legs felt heavy, really lethargic. The distance from the corner to the flat wasn’t far but right now it felt like it was an unbridgeable distance. He realised he was holding a plastic bag with Chinese takeaway from their favourite place. The bag handles were cutting into his fingers of his right hand, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the unsettled jittering in his gut. He knew he was starving after a long taxing day, but the feeling in the pit of his stomach had nothing to do with hunger. He was sure he wouldn’t be able to stomach any food the way he was feeling.

John tried to bring his mind into focus. _Why was he here?_ Every step closer to the flat filled him with dread and uncertainty. He didn’t remember why.

Just as he neared the door, his phone chimed an alert and like a hit of déjà vu, he remembered this night, this moment, and the dread only grew as his brain caught up. He pulled his phone out of his pocket.

**Mycroft:** John, I hope you have remembered what we talked about. Are we clear? MH

He rolled his eyes. Mycroft had texted every day this week. John had ignored all of them of course. He decided he should reply before it got out of hand.

**John:** Crystal. JW

Placing his phone back in his jacket pocket and shaking his head, the text had not done anything to help his mood right now – or to quell the increasing anxiety building in him as he stepped up to the door. He could hear the sounds of Sherlock’s violin wafting down from upstairs and his insides plunged to another level of foreboding which he could not control. The knocker on 221B, which he had used quite a lot over the last few months, suddenly seemed heavier, impossible to move. John grabbed it but stood there with the metal held between his fingers. His eyes transfixed, the metal cold and stinging his fingers, but he couldn’t let it go or make himself knock it.

Suddenly the door opened, heaving the knocker from his hands, startling him. He looked up from his empty hand to meet Mrs Hudson face to face. She had her coat and a handbag ready, obviously on her way out.

“Oh John! You frightened the life out of me!” Mrs Hudson cried out with a laugh. Sherlock’s landlady was always so lovely to John whenever he visited. And she fussed over Sherlock, even when she swore she wouldn’t. She treated them both like her own children.

“The feeling’s mutual,” John huffed breathlessly, his heart pounding from the fright.

“You here to see Sherlock, love?” she asked in her friendly sing song way.

“Yes, is he in?” John kicked himself internally – of _course_ he was in. They could both hear the violin playing upstairs. It was more of a passing doorway conversation than an actual question. She understood that and didn’t judge him. _Sherlock would have,_ he thought to himself.

“Yes, yes. You go on up – he will be glad to see you. He’s been moping all weekend without you here,” she said with the sort of annoyance only a mother could say with love. “I’m just on my way out dear, will you let him know?”

John nodded kindly, still recovering from the shock of being caught off guard. He suspected she wouldn’t be so kind if she knew why he was here.

“Looks like you have dinner sorted though, so I needn’t worry. You boys have a good night!” she said enthusiastically and stepped past John and out the door with a wave, her handbag colliding gently with the packet of takeaway as she passed. It swung back and forth, making the handles of the bag dig into his fingers even more.

John stood in the open doorway for a moment, listening to the violin, taking in what Mrs Hudson had said. _He’s been moping all weekend without you here,_ and John couldn’t help feeling ashamed. The stairs up to the flat needed to be scaled if he was to get this over with, but his feet wouldn’t move. He closed his eyes and took in a long breath, releasing it on a loud exhale as he stepped inside and closed the door. He swapped the takeaway to his other hand as his fingers were losing circulation, opening and closing his fingers to release the blood and try to relieve the tingling in them. Steeling himself, he took the staircase slowly, one step at a time, as if the lack of speed might help him get through this next hurdle in any way. He told himself he was going slowly so as not to disturb Sherlock, but he knew perfectly well that was not the reason. Each step brought him closer to a fate he didn’t want to think about.

Every note playing from Sherlock’s violin was piercing him in the heart. The melody was something new he didn’t recognise, but it was the most beautiful thing John had ever heard him play. As he finally reached the door frame, he leaned on it quietly and watched Sherlock from his vantage point. Sherlock’s back was turned, looking out the window, although from this angle, John could see his eyes were closed as he played. Sherlock always looked beautiful when he played. So relaxed, in a completely different world of his own, soaking up the music. John loved to watch him play and his heart ached that this might be the last time. But he knew this was all just sentimental pining. He had a job to do and he had decided. He needed to stand firm.

Sherlock stopped, moving to the table to grab a pencil, scrawling on a page of manuscript. The bag in John’s hand moved slightly as he adjusted his position, making a rustling sound and suddenly drawing attention to his presence. Sherlock turned his head.

“John. How long have you been …” Sherlock looked up a little surprised, coming back to the world around him, and flashing a stunning smile at the sight of John.

“Sorry I …” John suddenly felt like he was intruding, and stuttered awkwardly, as if Sherlock could hear his thoughts from across the room. “I just wanted to watch you … for a minute,” he admitted.

“Did Mrs H let you in? Come in, come in, don’t be silly!” he interrupted, not even observing John’s flustered state, grabbing his violin again to continue.

“Yes, she’s off out. Scared the bejesus out of me as we collided at the door, though,” he laughed. It felt strange to laugh given his mood, but he couldn’t help it.

“Is that …?” Pointing his violin bow at the bag dangling from John’s hands.

“Yes, I brought dinner – Chinese. I hope that’s all right? I was starving after the train ride,” John replied. Sherlock changed his mind and placed his violin carefully on the table to give John his attention.

“How was the trip?” he asked, as he walked over to John, leaning in to give him a quick kiss, but John lifted the takeaway up between them and handed it to Sherlock, blocking his advance.

“Fine. It was fine,” John said hurriedly, “here take this.” And he busied himself walking to the kitchen to get plates. Sherlock noticed the deflection and stood confused, holding the bag.

“That music was lovely,” John called from the kitchen, over the sound of the clattering plates and cutlery, changing the subject. His voice was a little too bright.

“Oh, just something I’m working on,” Sherlock said casually, as he moved to the couch to sit down and open the bag and unpack the food onto the coffee table. He gathered that John’s weekend had clearly not gone to plan, but John hated it when he deduced things without the proper conventions of discussion. John always needed gentle drawing out when he was in a mood and Sherlock had learnt over time how to do it better.

“How was _your_ day?” John asked as he brought out the plates and set about dishing the food onto each of them. He knew Sherlock would notice that something wasn’t right – he was clearly trying to avoid being the centre of conversation.

“I did some study for the exams,” Sherlock began. “I really _should_ take more notes in class.”

“I’ve been telling you this! Haven’t I been saying this all along?” John livened up as he teased Sherlock. “I mean, I know you _know_ everything, but you do know they write the exams, right? It’s useful if only to figure out what they might focus the exam on.” John settled on to the couch beside Sherlock, but notably further away than he would normally sit, and Sherlock started to feel a prickling of nerves at John’s behaviour.

“Do you want some wine or something?” Sherlock asked.

“No, I’m fine, for now,” John said, quietly focussing on his plate but not eating anything, his fork pushing the food from one side to the other.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what was going through John’s head. He made a start on the food and realised he was actually hungry. He had been at his music for a while and the time had got away from him. He needed to think of some things to talk about to try and draw John out of whatever mood he was in right now because it was unsettling. John was usually the one that kept the conversation flowing between them.

“Mmmm this one’s nice,” he commented, pointing to one of the dishes on the plate.

“The prawns?” John asked.

“Yes, we haven’t had that before,” Sherlock answered, moving a prawn around on his plate to look at it closer. Only Sherlock could treat food like an experiment.

“Yeah I thought I’d add something different. Is that okay?” he asked a little tentatively.

“Yes of course.” Sherlock smiled at him. “I like it.”

“Fine then,” John said, comfortable that he had made the right decision.

“Oh, I heard the best story about Anderson!” Sherlock finally thought of something to say, resting his plate in his lap. “Apparently the boys from the college got him drunk on Thursday night and then carried him into a lecture theatre to sleep it off.”

“What?!” John dropped his fork onto the plate with a clatter and looked at Sherlock eyebrows raised, with a smile. This was exactly what Sherlock needed to distract John.

“Yep. You missed it because you left on Friday. But he didn’t wake up until the morning when the first class of the day came in. He was sleeping in the back row … naked! He had to do the whole walk of shame out of the class. _Sans_ clothes.” Sherlock raised his eyebrows comically.

“Wow, I’m actually sorry I missed that,” John laughed. Despite his disposition, this really tickled his fancy to hear.

“Anderson’s an idiot,” Sherlock said around a new mouthful of food. “He deserved it.”

“Yes, he is that,” John agreed, nodding, picking up his fork again to push the food around the plate. “Which class was it?”

“The first years. Professor Donovan,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh my god! Perfect. Can you imagine him … oh the image!” John giggled to himself.

And for a moment, things were good, John seemed all right. They shared a moment smiling at each other and laughing about Anderson’s misfortune. As the laughter died down, John’s eyes dropped from Sherlock’s, the silence between them awkward again.

“You must be tired. It was a big weekend I imagine?” Sherlock tried to investigate gently.

“I’m fine,” John said quietly, focussing on the untouched plate of food in his hands.

“So how was the trip _really_?” Sherlock pressed, not willing to give up on helping John out of this funk.

“Well the train was bloody delayed. Twice. You know how I hate that,” John said annoyed.

“And your parents?” he continued to probe.

“Fine,” John said, not looking up.

“Fine?” Sherlock shook his head and let the word sit for a moment. “You’re using that word a lot – fine.” He let out a loud breath. “John, what’s going on?” he finally asked, dread starting to settle in his stomach.

John couldn’t look at Sherlock, couldn’t say anything for a moment.

“You said you were _starving_ but you’ve barely touched your food. What’s going on?” Sherlock asked concerned.

“Sherlock, um … we need to talk,” John said, brows knitted.

“Oh sure.” He shuffled on the couch, straightening up, suddenly regretting his decision to push.

“So, Sherlock …” John began slowly, leaning forward to place his plate down on the coffee table. The action signalling a possible declaration of seriousness Sherlock was not prepared for.

“John, you’re scaring me,” Sherlock let out, not meaning to give the emotion away. He gripped his plate firmly as if this would offer some sort of support.

John let out a big sigh, ready to talk finally. “So, I went and saw my parents,” he said calmly.

“Yes, I know that John. But what happened? What is it? Are they okay?” Sherlock was starting to panic a little.

“I haven’t seen them for a while as you know. I was a little bit nervous, but I was excited to tell them about you.” Sherlock didn’t smile at that. Something about how this was going didn’t reassure him. John was not smiling either.

“The last time I went to visit them, I took Sarah with me. They loved Sarah.” John finally looked at Sherlock for the first time as he said it, looking remorseful.

The fact that he used that moment to look at Sherlock sent a little stab of jealousy through him. “ _Everyone_ does. Everyone loves her it seems.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John cleared his throat nervously. “Sherlock …” he began.

“John, I don’t …?” Sherlock interrupted trying to understand, shaking his head in confusion.

“So, I _told_ them about us,” John finally finished.

“Okay …” he answered nervously. _It should be a good thing. Why wasn’t this a good thing?_

“Obviously it was a bit of a shock since they still thought I was with Sarah. They … it didn’t go well, Sherlock. It didn’t go well at all,” John finally admitted.

“I’m guessing that from the look on your face,” Sherlock interjected.

“Well the thing is, I told them about you and I was _excited_ to tell them about you … I really was … and then they basically … forbid me from seeing you anymore,” he said in a rush as if that would be any easier to hear.

“What?!” Sherlock put his plate down on the coffee table to focus on this properly and it crashed a little louder than he intended, startling them both. _This could not be happening._ “Well obviously you told them that’s not going to happen,” he assumed.

There was no response from John. He wouldn’t even look Sherlock in the eye right now, just sat looking down at his lap with penitence.

“ _John_? You _told_ them that’s not going to happen right?” Sherlock urged.

John stood up suddenly, needing to move, and paced to the middle of the room, one hand to his hip, one hand on his face in frustration. “Sherlock …” he sighed, “it’s more complicated than that.”

“Uh, no. I don’t … I don’t think it _should_ be. What are you trying to say, John?” Sherlock was suddenly confused and angry. _How was this even happening right now?_ They had been so happy for months. Sherlock was confident they had been going so well.

“You know my parents are seriously religious. They just couldn’t accept it. They couldn’t accept that I would be with you, that I would be with a _man_. Over Sarah. They didn’t understand. And I don’t know why I thought they would, but I just thought that maybe they would support me as their son. But they didn’t. And now …” John was pacing frantically, and Sherlock could see that John was just as lost in all of this right now as he was. Sherlock really should have forced John to let him come along for the visit, as he had asked to. But John had been insistent that he needed to go alone, that he wanted a weekend to just be alone and Sherlock had known something was wrong even before he left. He had tried to ignore the feeling, to brush it off as silly paranoia. Now he was regretting that decision.

“John … what did they say?” Sherlock needed to know.

“That they think I’m just going through a phase. That I just had cold feet with Sarah because it was going so well and that, I don’t know, that I just need to get back together with her and it will all … that I’ll just get over it,” John finished in a rush.

“Well …” Sherlock shook his head in disbelief, “… but that’s ridiculous, John.” They had never really discussed the relationship in this context before. It just was. It had happened, and they were happy. Sherlock’s family had accepted them, and John had been coming to their family dinners each week. It had never really occurred to Sherlock that there was anything wrong with them being together or that anyone might have an issue with it. Or that _John_ might actually have an issue with it. It felt so completely comfortable and natural when they were together. He couldn’t believe this had never come up between them before.

“Is it? _Is_ it ridiculous?” John asked, frustrated.

“Well of _course_ it is! You don’t actually _believe_ that, do you?” Sherlock was incredulous.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I don’t _know_ what I … this … _us._ I don’t know what this is,” John gestured frantically between them.

“What do you mean?! John we’ve been together for _months_ now. What are you even talking about?” Sherlock huffed, standing up and walking to the window to look out at the normal people walking along the street outside without a care in the world. How he wished he could trade with one of them right now.

“I don’t know … I don’t … Sherlock I wasn't … I’ve _never_. I don’t even know how to say this!” John stuttered through his thoughts.

“Well … I suggest you find a way, John, because I _hope_ you’re not saying what I _think_ you’re saying,” Sherlock finally said, a little coldly, turning back to look at John and fixing him with a glare that stopped John in his place.

“I mean, I’ve never been interested in men before, ever … like _ever_ Sherlock. That had never crossed my mind before you. And with you I suddenly felt … fascination … and interest … and …” he looked at Sherlock imploring him to understand the confusion in his head.

“Attraction John. You felt _attraction_. We’ve had sex. _A lot_ ,” Sherlock said flatly, turning back to the window with his arms crossed, suddenly feeling like he had misunderstood everything about their relationship.

“Yeah okay. Yes … there was attraction. But … I don’t normally want to do that with _men_. And I think, that is, I worry … that maybe they’re right. Maybe my parents are _right_. That maybe I had a moment of weakness or …” John was justifying things madly, thinking out loud in front of Sherlock and the spewing forth of all of this information was making Sherlock feel increasingly sick to his stomach.

“A moment of weakness?” he scoffed.

“I don’t know. Yes? Maybe? I worry that maybe that’s what it is,” John spluttered nervously, looking away from Sherlock, suddenly feeling guilty and knowing how it sounded. “She’s been talking to Sarah. My mum.”

“Oh great. Sarah’s been calling your parents?” Sherlock huffed.

“Yes apparently and well … they’ve organised for us to … have dinner together. This week. And they think that we should try to sort it out between us. And I think …” John trailed off.

“You think they’re _right_. Don’t you?” Sherlock suddenly accused, looking at John with a narrowed accusatory glare.

“Sherlock …” John pleaded, tilting his head.

“You’re going to go back to Sarah, aren’t you?” Sherlock continued.

“I just think it might be …” John didn’t know how to finish that thought delicately.

“John! I don’t even believe I’m hearing this. What is going on with you? Are you really doing this? You’re breaking up with me?” Sherlock sighed, returning to the couch to sit, his legs suddenly unable to hold him.

“Sherlock … you’re my best friend.” John returned to the couch safely at the other end, trying to be closer to Sherlock, hoping to persuade him. Now that Sherlock knew what this visit was about, John just had to reassure him it was the right decision. “And you know I care about you … _so_ much. There’s no question. And I don’t want to lose you. But I don't know if being with a man is what I saw for my future. I had always pictured family, a wedding, children?” John said finally, and the thought stung Sherlock’s pride.

“What? And you can’t have all those things with me?” Sherlock accused. He knew deep down he hadn’t really thought about any of those things in his future either yet. But if he was going to consider them with anyone, John was definitely the only one he would want to do that with.

“That’s not what I mean.” John shook his head. _Why couldn’t he say this the way he needed to? It had made sense on the train ride._

“Well I don’t know _what_ you mean, what are you even …? I don’t even understand what this is, John! Why didn’t you just tell them to shove it because we’re happy?! We’re _really_ happy. At least we _were_ a week ago. I don’t understand what’s changed. You’ve been weird all week and I thought it was just nerves about seeing your parents and now … this can’t be all of it, surely. What changed?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well also, Mycroft …” John started tentatively.

“Mycroft?! What?! What the hell would you listen to him for?!” Sherlock was suddenly outraged. _How had Mycroft come into this all of a sudden?_

“He told me that you …” John was struggling to get words out now, dreading Sherlock’s reaction.

“That I what? When did he do this? At the family dinner? When did he even have time?” Sherlock was in a fury and John couldn’t keep up.

“No, he came and saw me on Tuesday. Found me at the university. When you were in a lecture,” John admitted.

“Perfect. So you’ve been feeling like this since Tuesday and you haven’t said anything … all week?! What did he say?” Sherlock exclaimed and the panic he felt was real. Mycroft always interfered. It was no wonder Sherlock had never had friends or any relationships to speak of. He was livid.

“Nothing,” John replied weakly.

“John. What did he say?” Sherlock demanded.

“He told me about the drugs, Sherlock,” John finally admitted, closing his eyes, knowing this would not go well. “I had no idea. You never told me about any of that,” he said, sounding hurt.

“It’s irrelevant. I don’t use them all the time,” Sherlock scoffed defensively, crossing his arms.

“But you do _use_ them,” John stated, not as a question. Mycroft had been very detailed in his depiction, it was unlikely to be a fabrication. Sherlock’s reaction had confirmed it for him already, but he needed to hear Sherlock admit it.

“Yes okay. Yes … sometimes. They calm my mind … when it races. I haven’t needed them as much because … well because when I’m with you everything seems … clearer.” Sherlock hated the admission. He didn’t like to let anyone know they had that kind of control or power over him, but it was true. John had changed everything for him. “With you, I’m more focussed. I don’t need them. You’re like a bloody conductor of light or something,” he said, suddenly disgusted at himself for allowing a single person to have that kind of hold on him. A person who was breaking him slowly now.

“So, it’s true? You _do_ have a history with drugs?” John wanted to be sure Sherlock was admitting to this fully.

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t look at John as he admitted it.

“A bad history?” John continued.

“Some of it might be considered bad, yes.” He said it flippantly and it made John’s stomach turn. He closed his eyes again. He had really hoped Sherlock might refute the allegations. For a moment they sat there saying nothing, the silence between them heavy.

“What else did he say?” Sherlock finally asked, feeling that his coffin was already built, and it just needed a few more nails to settle him in it. He may as well press on at this point.

John let out a breath and decided to tell him everything. “He thinks that you’re not ready for this to be anything more than just a bit of fun, something casual. And that I shouldn’t get too attached. And that it’s not your style to get attached anyway. But that it wouldn’t be a good idea if this were to develop further. And if you _were_ to get too attached and things didn’t go well … that it would likely destroy you and send you into a drug spiral that he needed to protect you from. And I …” John sighed, shaking his head. “It’s been really good, Sherlock. With you. _Really_ good. But I don’t know if I can … I don’t know if I want just casual with you. But I also don’t know if I want the pressure, the burden of the rest of that. To try to keep you in one piece. We’ve only just started …” John trailed off, a bit lost with how to finish his thoughts again and the emotion of it started to hurt his throat, as he tried to not let it show. His head had begun to throb with all the tension.

Sherlock had buried his head in his hands. “Did you think that maybe asking _me_ about this would have been a good idea? You could have talked to me first about this. Seriously? Do you not think that maybe I could have an opinion about it?” He spoke softly into his hands, not looking at John.

“Yes, you’re right. I know you’re right. But I …” John felt incredibly ashamed. Sherlock looked at him, and there were clearly the beginnings of moisture in his eyes. He was angry and upset, understandably so.

“Don’t you see that by trying to protect me, my brother has just created the _exact_ scenario he wanted to avoid?” Sherlock stood up, the nervous energy in him becoming too much. “I’m going to need a drink if we’re going to keep talking about this. Wine?” He looked at John but didn’t wait for a response. “You know, John, I don’t know what’s happened in your head during this last week. We’re in two very different places obviously, because I’ve been spending the weekend excitedly waiting to see you. And missing you. But _you’ve_ been spending the whole week thinking about breaking up with me apparently, and allowing my brother and your parents to confirm it for you,” his voice was dry, as he walked to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of red wine and two glasses aggressively, bringing them back to plant them on the table.

“Sherlock …” John pleaded again.

“I understand my brother is a giant ass, and he can be very persuasive. And okay yes, I hadn’t mentioned the drugs yet. I’m surprised you didn’t already know to be honest. Half the university knows about it. But why do your _parents_ have so much pull on you. _Why_?” he demanded, his voice cracking on the final word, the emotion beginning to show, and it pained John to hear it. He knew this would be hard. He was struggling with making this decision himself, but he hadn’t prepared himself for hearing Sherlock suffer through it. Sherlock refused to sit back down or tackle the wine yet. He just stood there in front of John, waiting for something that might explain this decision.

“Because they’re my parents,” he said simply, as if that should be enough. He didn’t really understand it himself. “They raised me, and they want what’s best for me … and I just can’t …” John was struggling now.

“You can’t? Oh, _you can’t_?” Sherlock didn’t want to allow him any leeway any more.

“No, I don’t think I can do this if I know they don’t support me, Sherlock. That they’re not going to support me,” he explained. It pained him a lot that they had rejected everything about his choices and that it had made him doubt them himself.

“So, what does that mean?” Sherlock demanded.

“Well for starters, they’re paying my university fees and board, so they have some say in my life. And they don’t want me to be with a man. They want me to snap out of this “phase” I’m going through and get back together with Sarah.” John announced it like it was a simple solution.

“John … you can’t be serious? Honestly!” Sherlock couldn’t wrap his head around this and he spun around on the spot with a dramatic flourish of his hands.

“Sherlock, I don’t have a choice. They’re paying my way. I don’t think I could work a job _and_ cope with the coursework. You know I’m not as good as you.” John sounded whiney to Sherlock and he was starting to really dislike this side of him. _How had he not known John could be like this?_

“You’re choosing money … over me?” Sherlock simplified the situation, knowing that was a little unfair.

“No … that’s not it. You _know_ that’s not it. _You_ don’t have to worry about money. You’re living in central London, for god’s sake. Your parents have paid your way _and_ they support your choices … you don’t have to worry about it. You don’t understand,” John cried out in frustration.

“Excuse me?” Sherlock retorted.

“Well it’s true! Do you need to pay board? Pay fees? Worry about how to pay for the clothes on your back? No, you don’t! So, don’t judge me!” he yelled, standing up to pace the lounge space as well, the two of them facing off at each other, competing for the space.

“You’re an adult, John …” Sherlock responded with condescension dripping from his words.

“This is how I get to study. I have a part scholarship and my parent’s cover the rest. I don’t have a choice in that matter. And this is what they want,” John said simply.

“John, you know that I don’t make a big deal about money, but honestly if it meant you didn’t have to do this, I would pay your way as well. You know that. You don’t need them. You don’t need to accept them treating you this way,” Sherlock pleaded, suddenly needing to find any way to change John’s decision.

“You know I could never accept that from you, Sherlock. It’s not just the money. It’s so many things … I just don’t think I believe that this will work now … that this is worth the heartache it is causing everyone. Maybe it’s time to just let it go,” he conceded.

“Right, so you’re just going to let them decide for us? Just like that? That’s it then? It’s not even up for discussion? You just come here with food and … what? Break up with me? Just like that?” Sherlock started to hyperventilate at the finality of it.

“Sherlock … I don’t know how else to do this … I mean we were friends before. Can’t we just …” John tried to offer, sitting back on the couch in confusion and frustration.

“What? You think we can just go back to _that_? After what we’ve been doing for _months_? You think you can just sit there with me and study?! And not want to … that’s cold. Even for _you_ , John. How can you be that cold? You just want to ignore what we are to each other now and just …” Sherlock began pacing in earnest his hands raking through his curls in frustration.

“Sherlock please …” John pleaded, not able to cope with Sherlock’s anger at him. Somehow, he had justified it in his head so much that he thought Sherlock would just accept all of it without argument. Now he was realising that may have been foolish.

“John please don’t do this,” he finally begged, rushing forward and grabbing both of John’s hands in his, kneeling on the floor in front of John.

“I don’t see any other way. I think between my family and your family … it’s just too hard. And I’m not even sure I want to take on this battle,” John said as kindly as he could, looking sadly into Sherlock’s eyes. He couldn’t bear what he saw there.

“Please don’t do this. _Please don’t do this_ ,” Sherlock begged, his eyes beginning to well up with tears, shaking John’s arms to punctuate the plea. “John. I love you,” he finally stated.

John was caught off guard by the sentiment. They hadn’t really said it to each other yet, not directly like that, despite thinking it plenty of times.

“I don’t _want_ to … I just don’t know … and I can’t …” he was suddenly flustered.

“Do you love _me_?” Sherlock asked simply, looking John straight on, trying to see if he really had misread this whole relationship, a tear slipping over and running down his cheek as he waited.

John could not respond. He just looked into Sherlock’s moist eyes, feeling so sick to his stomach for doing this.

“You can’t even say it, can you?” Sherlock realised in disgust, dropping John’s hands and standing up. “Why? Because you’ve suddenly had a crisis of conscience out of nowhere? _Do you love me?_ ” he demanded again.

“You know I do, Sherlock,” John replied quietly, looking at his hands, still feeling the tingling from Sherlock’s touch. “You _know I do,_ ” he pleaded, finally looking up at Sherlock.

“Then say it,” Sherlock demanded coldly.

“I can’t …” he said, avoiding eye contact again, feeling suddenly insecure. “I _can’t_ say it … I can’t because …”

“Have you said it to Sarah?” he challenged.

“What?” John sat back like he had been slapped.

“You have, haven’t you? Did you tell Sarah you _loved_ her?” he demanded.

John shook his head and dropped it in defeat. “No, Sherlock. No, I’ve never said it … to anyone. I don’t think it comes naturally to me.”

“Oh, and you think it comes naturally to me, do you?!” he spat. “God John! _Do_ you love her though? Is that what this is about?” Sherlock refused to let up.

“Sherlock, stop it,” John said, refusing to answer.

Sherlock was angry. He was so furious that John was not going to dignify this with an answer either. His pacing had become frantic and angry and John didn’t know what to say to calm him down.

“You’re really doing this aren’t you?” Sherlock’s voice had taken on a coldness that sent a chill down John’s spine. He was shutting down, closing off to John at a rapid rate. “I hate you right now. You know that? _I hate you_. I hate your parents. I can’t believe you’re going to do this … _to us_. When everything was so good. And _bloody Mycroft!_ ” he yelled and kicked the small table beside John’s favourite armchair, sending a book and some papers flying across the room and overturning the little table from the force.

John put his head in his hands, admitting defeat. He had broken them. He had done this.

“Sherlock. Mycroft was just worried about you. He was worried about _us_ and how that might work. And so am I, honestly. I think all things considered, I’m not cut out for this to go further. It’s too hard,” John admitted.

“Well then, you’re weak, John Watson. You’re not the man I thought you were,” he said angrily into the void between them. John knew Sherlock might not mean it, but it really hurt him. Because he knew in his heart it was true. He _was_ weak.

“I need … I’m going to need the bottle opener, so I can drink if I have to listen to more of this,” Sherlock said angrily, and he left the space without looking at John, storming to the kitchen.

“Sherlock …” John tried to get his attention.

“No, just leave it John. I think you’ve said enough,” he yelled out from the kitchen. John sat on the couch, feeling completely ruined, rubbing his face with his hands. He was glad he hadn’t eaten much. Despite feeling starved before he got here, his stomach was now so churned up, he felt like he might actually throw up what little was in there. He couldn’t even look towards the kitchen in case Sherlock caught his eye. The guilt inside him was eating away little by little at any confidence he had felt that this might end up as a mutual decision. Sherlock was not going to give up quietly. _How had he ever convinced himself that would be an option?_

The noises of Sherlock sniffling in teary frustration as he rattled around in the drawers in the kitchen looking for the opener, suddenly grated on John’s nerves. Usually it amused him to hear Sherlock trying to do domesticated things in the kitchen and he would throw a teasing remark out about it. But it was not funny today. The anger with which he could hear Sherlock wrestle with the stiff drawers, cursing under his breath, only stabbed him with more guilt with each passing noise.

“Ow! Bugger!” Sherlock cried out suddenly, startling John out of his own head. “Ooouch! Shit, shit, shit.”

“Sherlock?” he checked from the couch, leaning forward to look over. Sherlock never swore.

“Ah, it’s fine, I’m just bleeding, that’s all,” he said annoyed, hissing through his teeth at the pain.

“What?! Are you okay?” John asked worriedly, standing up to come to the kitchen. He didn’t want to invade Sherlock’s need for space right now, but he needed to check. As John began to walk towards the kitchen, Sherlock pushed the open drawer shut with his hip in frustration loudly. He could only see Sherlock’s back, but John could tell that he had stopped where he was, crumpled a little, and had started to cry, his shoulders shaking, his head in his hand. No sound was coming out. He turned slightly, and dropped unceremoniously to the floor, leaning his back against the cabinets. His head still resting in one hand, covering his eyes, and the other injured one close to his body. John was suddenly worried Sherlock had dropped because of the injury.

“Sherlock … are you …” he rushed over closer, worried, seeing blood.

“Why John? Why would you …? Why have you done this to us …?” He struggled to get the words out, crying in earnest. John realised that the reaction had been more about his emotional state than the physical injury, but he could still see a lot of blood. His heart was aching for Sherlock, who was clearly dissolving into a mess now.

“What did you do?” he asked first, trying to ignore the questions and focus on the injury.

“Something in the drawer … I was trying to find the bottle opener …” he said absently between tears, sniffing. John came over quickly, grabbing at Sherlock’s arm with urgency to check. He had sliced open the palm of his hand, right down to his wrist.

“Oh Sherlock, you’ve really cut yourself deep. It’s bleeding a lot,” John said seriously, continuing to investigate the cut, and the amount of blood, deciding what to do. He was completely calm under the pressure, Sherlock noted. Not emotional at all, not alarmed enough to lose his cool.

“John, why don’t you love me?” Sherlock said suddenly, looking into John’s eyes, ignoring the urgency of the situation.

“Just … hold on Sherlock,” John said, ignoring his question and jumping up to grab a tea towel from the bench. “Here, use this cloth and just put pressure on it. _Sherlock._ ” John tried to get his attention. Sherlock was not really taking in the situation at all. He was confused and upset, and John needed to stop the bleeding before anything else, but Sherlock was not being helpful. He was in a mess of tears and words. Evidently the magnitude of their argument finally catching up to him.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re just in a bit of shock,” he said gently. “Just hold the cloth okay?” he encouraged.

Sherlock looked at it like it was foreign, like the words wouldn’t sink in. “Cloth,” he said to himself, as if his brain was trying to process what it was.

“Where’s your medical kit?” he asked, but Sherlock was still not taking in the information. “Sherlock? Where’s the kit?” John pressed.

“Above the fridge …” he said absently. He was holding the cloth to the cut on his hand now, but his eyes were glassy, and he was fascinated by the blood running down his arm. His sleeve had been rolled to the elbow, so he moved his arm around to observe the trails of the blood as they trickled down his forearm. He let go momentarily to wipe his nose which had been running from all the crying, only to smear blood under his nose. John was concerned and was starting to understand what Mycroft had been talking about. Usually quite confident, bordering on arrogant, Sherlock didn’t show this fragile side very often, but it was clearly there, and he was struggling with it right now.

“Mycroft was right …” Sherlock said sadly to himself, as if he had read John’s thoughts, his face crumpling back into tears again.

“Okay, just hold on, hold that cloth firmly! I’ll get some bandages. It’s going to be fine,” John said with authority. Sherlock was crying in earnest and John couldn’t bear the sound of it. His arms were resting on his knees, one hand pressing the cloth to the other hand. The blood had soaked through the tea towel already and was dripping down his arm, part of his leg and to the floor at an alarming rate.

“What the hell did you even cut it on?!” John asked as he stretched up to just barely reach the first aid kit in the open cupboard above the fridge.

“Something sharp,” Sherlock said absently.

“Sherlock you didn’t …” John began. Sherlock looked up at him. “You didn’t do this on purpose did you? Hurt yourself?” The thought snapped Sherlock out of his fog enough to realise what he must look like.

“No! John, I was just …” John sat beside him, opening the kit. “It wasn’t like that, I was just angry and taking it out on that drawer of crap. I can never find anything in there. Really should clean it out. Obviously there’s something sharp I need to remove from in there,” he said with a huff, but it had helped stop the tears flowing and bring him back to the present. He rolled his eyes at how silly he had been. “Sorry,” he said, calming slightly and leaning his head into John’s, their foreheads touching for a moment.

John gave him a tight smile and moved his head as he started to wipe the hand down with some disinfectant, concentrating hard on the wound, and trying to resist the feelings running through him. Sherlock hissed at the sharp sting from the disinfectant but didn’t take his eyes off John, watching him intensely.

They sat there in silence, feeling the heat between them that was always there, that Sherlock _knew_ was always there. John cleaned the blood away gently, avoiding eye contact. But Sherlock could tell from his breathing that John felt it between them too. _Why was he denying it?_

“It doesn’t look deep enough to need stitches, I think. But we might need to go down to A & E, just in case. Just hold this gauze on it while I grab a bandage. We’ll wrap it up here to try and stop the bleeding and then we can head down,” he instructed.

Sherlock smiled a little. “You really are going to be a good doctor, John Watson.”

John looked up at Sherlock and smiled sadly back, before returning to his task. He began wrapping the bandage around Sherlock’s hand and wrist in a hypnotic movement.

“I always knew, you know. I always knew this would never last. I don’t get to have things like this in my life. I can’t believe Mycroft interfered though. That’s low even for him. I thought he liked you,” Sherlock said, and it made John sad that Sherlock had just accepted it now, so easily.

“Oh Sherlock … please don’t. It’s not all about that. I just …” John sighed, clipping the bandage in place and sinking down to sit beside Sherlock on the floor. He was still holding onto Sherlock’s bandaged hand, absently, cradling it gently in his. “I don’t trust this. I _can’t_ trust it. I’ve never even _thought_ about this fully before. It doesn’t feel wrong, but it doesn’t feel … right, I guess? It had never occurred to me. I spent my life focussed on the idea of finding a wife and marrying her and having children, to give my parents grand-children. It never occurred to me to think outside of that. No man had ever, _ever_ caught my eye to even consider it an option. And then you came along and it was … unexpected,” he admitted, letting go of Sherlock’s hand finally. “ _And_ wonderful. It was _so_ wonderful, Sherlock, honestly. But I just don’t trust it. I’m sorry,” John said shaking his head. “Your brother, the drugs, my family. It’s all just added to my doubts and now I can’t think of anything else.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, he just sat there, taking in what John had said, tears still dripping down his face quietly as he took it in. The shock worn off slightly, the pain in his hand was finally starting to throb and he was finding it hard to concentrate on intelligent thought. He finally leaned sideways and placed his head onto John’s shoulder, as a sign of acceptance.

John reached across his body and cupped Sherlock’s face as it rested against his shoulder. Sherlock ran his uninjured hand up and down John’s arm affectionately, coming to rest on the cuff of his jumper. John didn’t stop him. The two of them exhausted and just sitting like this together on the floor was a relief after the rest of the evening. Sherlock grabbed absently at the cuff of the jumper sleeve and brushed the embroidered initials between his thumb and forefinger without thinking. John didn’t really notice. He was staring off into the kitchen void, exhausted.

“I always knew you were too good for me, Sherlock Holmes. I’m poor, and stupid and not even in the same league as you. It’s for the best really. You can do so much better than me,” John said sadly, trying to reassure him.

“John please don’t say this is over,” Sherlock tried pleading one more time.

“Sherlock, you’re my best friend and I will always care for you. I will _always_. But I think it’s the best for both of us. I think it _is_. You will be better off without me complicating your life. You always said the work was what mattered to you … so focus on the work,” John reassured him.

“There will never be anyone else for me John Watson. I will _never_ love anybody else. _Ever_ ,” he said through gritted teeth in determination, lifting his head up off John’s shoulder to look him in the eyes.

John’s hand was still on his face, and he couldn’t let go.

“You go and figure yourself out, figure out whatever _this_ is that’s going on. But I will never love anyone else. It will only ever be you.” His tears were frustrated, and his eyes were determined. His curls were a mess.

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock’s forehead and then slumped back against the cabinet door, head back, eyes shut. What a mess he had made. But there was no backing out now.

Sherlock leaned back down onto John’s shoulder and let himself cry for the both of them.


	10. Fallout

John came out of the hypnosis and his heart ached. Before he could focus on anything in the room, he stared in disbelief at the ground. _Why did he do that to Sherlock? Why would he do that?_ In all the confusion of who he might be as a person, John never thought he could be that type of person. He was so angry at himself. Of _course_ that was never what he wanted. He knew it in his bones, in his own head and heart. He knew it just from reading the blogs. And he felt it during the hypnosis. It had _always_ been Sherlock. _Why hadn’t he told Sherlock that? Why hadn’t he stood up to everyone and just been proud of that?_ He was disgusted with himself. 

He looked up to connect with Claire, but her chair was empty. As he glanced sideways, to look over guiltily to Sherlock, he saw Sherlock was leaning forward, his head in his hands, his elbows resting on his legs and he was crying. He wasn’t one to cry openly in front of people. John knew that. But here he was, in front of the therapist, crying. Not just crying, really sobbing, struggling to get a breath in. Claire was crouched in front of him, hands on each of his knees and talking quietly to him very close to his face and he was nodding to what she was saying. John couldn’t even hear it from where he was sitting.

John’s heart broke in that moment. He had done this.

“Sherlock …” he tried to begin to form some cohesive thought.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to do this, John!” he spat between tears, not looking at John. “I’m not strong enough to do this. I didn’t _want_ to do this.”

“I don’t know what to say …” John said weakly, a bit lost in all of it.

“You just have no idea, John! No idea what I went through,” he spat without looking up. “I worked hard to put all this to bed, to move on. I can’t …” Sherlock dissolved again. “Oh god, make it stop, please make it stop!” He looked to Claire, hoping she would help.

“Sherlock, just focus back on your breathing. You’re safe now. We are here with you, and those things are just in your past. Take some deep breaths,” she said soothingly, working him through it and calming him back down again.

John sat there feeling completely useless. He was in shock. He understood – now that he had been back in his head – how much pull his family had. How trapped he had felt. How the pressure of Mycroft basically warning him off snapped his last bit of strength. The pull of the easy and comfortable choice, going back to Sarah and just having a conventional happy relationship that everyone supported – it had seemed so simple. The perfect decision. But even as he had made it, he knew it had been the wrong one. He knew where his heart had been firmly planted. And he had lacked the strength to make that choice. Watching Sherlock now, he was really understanding what a critically flawed decision it had been.

Claire had left John to fend for himself, knowing he would be okay, and giving her focus to Sherlock, who had clearly crumbled under the pressure and on reliving the event through John’s eyes.

“Sherlock, you being here is so important. It’s helping John to remember this. And he _needs_ to remember this. He needs to remember what he did to you both. And why you are in this situation, and what led to it. This is going to help bring him back to you,” Claire implored.

John scooted over on the couch to be closer to Sherlock, to show support. It was all he could think to do.

“John shouldn’t have to live through these memories alone either, Sherlock. And I think it’s going to help _you_ heal, to go through it with him as well,” Claire continued.

“I don’t want to go through this. It was enough the first time,” Sherlock said, his breathing starting to calm, the tears slowing, but the exhaustion in his voice was clear. This was hurting him.

“Sherlock. I’m so, so sorry,” John finally said, running his hand along Sherlock’s shoulder blade in comfort. Sherlock still couldn’t look at John.

“It was a harrowing memory to relive, John. For _both_ of you. Perhaps if you tell Sherlock how you’re feeling about it, that might help him?” Claire encouraged. John looked to Claire, a little terrified, and gave a nod. Claire stood and moved back to her chair to give them the space together.

Sherlock actually finally turned towards John, showing that he wanted to hear this, now that he had calmed down a bit. His face was red, and tear stained, and John’s heart was aching to help him. He had actually expected the therapy session to be distressing for himself, but he was finding it more helpful than anything. Every step further in hypnosis was like joining more pieces of the puzzle together and giving him more solid ground to stand on. He was rebuilding his identity, one memory at a time – making sense of how he ended up here. He knew Sherlock had been apprehensive about coming. It honestly had not occurred to him it might be bordering on damaging for him to go through it a second time.

John grabbed Sherlock's hand in his. He opened the palm to find the scar from that day and traced it with his finger. Sherlock closed his eyes, some new silent tears falling down his face. The feeling of John touching the scar sent a shiver down his spine. John then lifted his hand up to his mouth and kissed the scar ever so gently, his lips caressing the raised skin.

“Sherlock, this scar, this _physical_ scar will always be there to remind me of what happened … of what I did to you that day. And I hate myself for it, I promise you that. I knew it was the wrong thing to do, deep down in my gut. Even as I was doing it. I wasn’t strong enough to resist _my_ parents … _your_ brother … my own fear.” He looked into Sherlock’s eyes. “I didn’t trust in _us_ the way you did. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise until it was too late.”

Sherlock looked at John. This man he loved. This man that was back in his life finally, loving him. They had been on such a journey already and he wanted so badly for everything to just fall into place and be simple. When they were lying in bed together each night, in each other’s arms and the outside world was far away from them, everything was so good. He had absolute faith in that, and he had been content to continue on without dealing with any of this. But having to relive it, to discuss it, to remember it. No amount of therapy and time to heal had ever helped him deal with those two weeks – the two weeks that had destroyed them – and the guilt and hurt that had festered in him for the years that followed. “It wasn’t too late John. You’re here.” He said it quietly and he meant it, although he was still reeling from the memories.

“Sherlock, why don’t you tell him why this is hard for you?” Claire assisted.

He looked at Claire, his eyes pleaded with her to not make him say any more. But she was unbending. Mycroft was right, she was good. He turned back to look at John, his eyes so full of hope and guilt and apology and Sherlock didn’t know how honest to be.

“It broke me, John. You broke me – broke us. That day splintered me into a thousand pieces. I was so sure I had found the one person who … who understood me … who really knew me and loved me anyway. I didn’t need anything else, any _one_ else in my world. And then you just … left. You left me.”

“And what did that do to you Sherlock? What happened next?” Claire encouraged.

“I … _we_ … went to A & E together and they checked me over … and I sent you away, John. I told you to go … and you did. You left me there.” Sherlock looked all over John’s face, hoping maybe some recognition might show, but John didn’t seem to register any of this. “You let Mycroft know where I was, and you left. He didn’t get there in time, not before they gave me pain meds. I was able to play up the pain. Busy A & E, they didn’t check for records. It was pretty easy. And … and I left the hospital before Mycroft got there. I was all hopped up on some hospital grade goods.”

John closed his eyes, a stab of guilt lodging under his ribs that he couldn’t shift.

“Of course, after that was in my system, I needed more. After that, I avoided Mycroft for a good week. Left my phone at the hospital so he couldn’t track me. He’s ever so good at that. It was quite the bender of a week.” Sherlock laughed but there was nothing funny about it.

“Just like that? You went straight to drugs?” John was disappointed to hear him say it so flippantly.

“Yes, it was that easy, John,” Sherlock announced calmly with acceptance. “You were pretty clear you weren’t changing your mind and it was that simple. Without you I had nothing left to … to bother living for.”

“Sherlock …” John let out on a groan. He couldn't bear to hear Sherlock talk like this.

“My brother found me eventually, in some drug den, and took me home to our parents’ home for a week. I promised to behave, and he foolishly trusted me and let me go back to Baker Street without sending me to rehab. We used to do this dance a lot – before I met you,” Sherlock let out on a huff.

John ached to hear more. What had he been doing during this time? Was he really having dinners with Sarah and his parents and pretending life was glorious while Sherlock was going through all of this? Had he really not contacted Sherlock for a week and been okay with that, despite breaking his heart? What kind of man had he been? How was he ever going to prove to Sherlock he was worthy? How could Sherlock even still love him right now, knowing all of this?

“I went home but I didn’t sleep or eat. Not properly. I went back to the university to try and get back into some routine. To be honest, I was hoping I might see you. But you seemed to successfully avoid me that week or so. When I got wind of the party … at Mike’s … well I thought maybe you would be there,” he continued.

“Stop.” John couldn’t take it anymore. “Sherlock, none of that matters to me. The drugs, any of it. Of course, I understand why you went off the rails. If I had known earlier, maybe I would have come and seen you sooner. I am really starting to hate myself right now, listening to this. And I know I deserve to hear it. I deserve that. But god, Sherlock. You have to know I would never have wanted you to be going through that. If I had known,” John tried to justify.

“You texted me, you know? A lot that week,” Sherlock went on as if John hadn’t spoken. “Mycroft had my phone, from the hospital. When I eventually got it back you had texted me a lot.”

“I’m not surprised. It was very clear in my mind. The memories around that day are coming back to me so clearly. I knew it was the biggest mistake I had ever made. I was trying with Sarah, but I am sure I was spending every minute missing you. I’m not surprised I texted you,” John said gently.

“You made it very hard … for me to move forward,” Sherlock admitted.

“You didn’t fight,” John answered.

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked, looking confused.

“You didn’t fight for me either,” John said sadly.

“You made it clear you didn’t want me, and I never understood why you wanted me in the first place. So, it was easy to believe that you didn’t need me or want to see me. And once I had gone back to the drugs, I couldn’t …” Sherlock’s brow drew together, not liking to admit it.

“Oh Sherlock,” John grabbed his hand again.

“I knew exactly what _I_ wanted,” Sherlock stated very simply. “I knew I would wait for you for as long as it took for you to come back to me. Or die in the meantime.”

John was shocked by the bluntness of this. The raw admission hit him hard.

“Sherlock, I don’t know what to say except … except thank you for always loving me. For always knowing what we could be. I’m so sorry I didn’t know it at the time. But we’re _here now_. And I’m not going to ever take that for granted again. Ever. I promise you that. And when we are through all of this, I will spend every day loving you, and proving it to you. For as long as that takes.” John’s voice cracked. He had held it together through all of this with no tears, but he was struggling to hold himself together now. He could see Sherlock needed his strength more though, so he swallowed the lump in his throat and took a deep breath. “Thank you for coming today to do this with me. I can see how hard it has been for you. I didn't realise how hard it would be for you. I needed you here with me and you came anyway. Thank you.”

Sherlock smiled at him, it was a tentative half smile. But it was a start.

“Right, well boys, I don’t want to interrupt when such good work is happening, but we are almost out of time unfortunately. I think we’ve covered a lot of ground today though. Sherlock, I want you to keep talking to John about how you are feeling. That’s important.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, uncomfortably. John squeezed his hand in support and nodded to Claire. He would make sure they did the work together.

“We have exams coming up, so we may have to wait a couple of weeks before our next appointment,” John added.

“Well then, this session has been a great starting point and now you can continue to fill in some of the blanks around this. Keep talking both of you. John, maybe you can tell Sherlock a bit more about what you remember around what we saw today? Sherlock you can do the same – give this time period a bit more detail for each other and express your feelings about it. But remember, it is just the _past_ and we don’t want to get caught up in it. You’ve both moved on from that time. It can’t hurt you anymore. Don’t let it destroy the good work you’re doing with each other. And continue enjoying your time together – in the bedroom. That will help keep you connected. Find some joy with that as well.”

John and Sherlock both blushed but looked at each other and the intensity in the gaze between them suddenly heated as they thought about the prospect of making up for all this negativity with something a bit more physical and positive.

“Sherlock, I wonder if you might give me a moment to just talk with John alone? We will only be a moment,” Claire asked.

“Ah, sure, yes all right.” Sherlock gave John a nervous smile and stood and walked out of the room. John looked to Claire curiously.

“John, be very gentle with him. Mycroft has given me some detail on this as well, obviously. Sherlock was incredibly unstable during that time. Dangerously so,” she said to John with a cautious look.

“Yes, I’m gathering that,” he replied nervously.

“You might want to consider if it’s wise to bring him to the next session. I’m of two minds about it after today. I’m assuming you want to go back to the accident? That seems to be the next logical memory to investigate.” She knew all of the history and was well aware of how John was wanting to tackle things methodically.

“Yes, I think so too,” he agreed.

“I’m not sure he will be able to handle that, John. But I will let you both decide about that. Just think about it carefully,” she warned.

* * *

Sherlock stood awkwardly outside the door, still shell-shocked. His eyes betraying the redness and tiredness of the trauma. He was thankful that the waiting room was empty, but he had that receptionist to contend with.

She glanced at him and gave him a pitying smile. He rolled his eyes and looked away, to avoid contact.

“Tough session?” she asked sympathetically, and it made Sherlock’s skin itch with the urge to hit _something_ , if not her.

“You … you seem to have a problem with me,” Sherlock stated, dripping with contempt.

“Me? Oh no, _heavens_ no,” she said, suddenly mortified.

“You’re always giving me the once over. I would have thought a receptionist should be impartial, invisible even,” Sherlock retorted.

She bristled at the idea. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s not it at all. I have watched you both for the last few months as you come and go. I just …”

“Have a problem with gay relationships, do you?” Sherlock was thirsting for a fight, a place to put these pent-up emotions from the session.

“My _wife_ would hope not,” she said with impudence.

Sherlock was genuinely surprised. He couldn’t hide the shock on his face.

She smiled, realising she had caught him off guard. “No, honestly I _admire_ you two. I’ve been watching you come here and quietly go through what must be very traumatic. Receptionists get to know a little bit about the case history, handling the files. It’s not my place to comment. But I _will_ say, you’re very lucky to have each other. I see many couples and a lot of them don’t deal with this very well. You two have a way about you. I like to watch you both, and see the little things that you do, to support each other. My wife and I went through some therapy together to deal with her past, and I can tell you I was not nearly as brave as you are being,” she encouraged.

Sherlock was speechless. Before he could reply, the door to Claire’s office opened and John came out. He saw Sherlock give the receptionist a gentle smile.

“You okay, Sherlock?” he asked, knowing how much Sherlock despised her, and feeling the behaviour was out of character.

“Yes, absolutely fine. I was just chatting to …” Sherlock began, realising he only knew her as “that annoying receptionist” up to this point.

“Anthea,” she offered.

“Anthea,” Sherlock said to John with a smile, “Claire's lovely receptionist.” She smiled back and gave him a nod of approval.

John looked confused but didn’t want to say anything. Either the trauma had got to Sherlock’s head or John had definitely missed something. He would ask Sherlock at home to fill him in. Right now, he was tired. So very tired. And Sherlock looked like a right mess. It was time to go home – maybe have a warm bath together and some takeaway food, an early night. There was much to repair after today.

“C’mon Sherlock, let’s go home,” John said, holding out his hand. “Is it okay if I just phone to book the next one when we’re ready?” John directed to Anthea.

“Absolutely fine. You two go,” she said gently.

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, feeling lighter, more confident and ready to go home.


	11. The Party

Sherlock always loved the moment when his brain started to come out of sleep and find awareness. That moment when the mind tried to contemplate reality versus the dream state: what day it was, what had happened the night before, where you were. Sherlock loved that moment of slight confusion and mayhem. Even a brain such as his experienced it. His brain was always so active in fact, that it was quite a journey just coming to full consciousness. As a teenager, he was a nightmare because of it, always taking a long time to wake, cataloguing the sensations. It always drove Mycroft to the point of derangement that he would take so long. They were often late for school. It was the source of many arguments and one of the reasons he was sure Mycroft was still irritated by him even as an adult. Now, as Sherlock was coming into his awakened state, he felt the sensation of warm legs tangled with his. _John_. 

He opened his eyes slowly and in front of him was John, lying beside him. Propped up on his side, head resting in his hand, his body held up by his elbow on the pillow, John had been watching him sleep. Sherlock gave him a sleepy smile and closed his eyes to breathe in. John’s scent invaded his nostrils and made him smile wider. He still couldn’t get use to the feeling of waking up with John beside him. Even after all this time, it felt like a blessing every day. These last few weeks in particular had been nothing short of heavenly. Now that there was no unresolved tension, no barriers, no need to be cautious, afraid one or the other might break, they were free to enjoy just being a contented couple.

John smiled back, reaching out to stroke his curls. “Morning sleepyhead,” he said gently.

“Morning,” Sherlock replied dreamily, and he reached out from under the blankets and stretched his arms and legs like a cat, expelling every last inch of sleep from his body.

“Sleep okay?” John asked with a little chuckle at Sherlock’s stretching routine. Sometimes this genius was just a big kid and it was one of the things John found utterly charming about him.

“Mmmm-hmmm,” Sherlock nodded sleepily, rolling closer to John to bring their bare chests closer together, and John couldn’t help leaning in and planting a kiss on Sherlock’s lips, so soft and pliant while he was still sleepy. John loved messy morning affection – all tousled hair and semi-consciousness. Sherlock hummed in appreciation.

“What time is it?” he asked as he gazed into John’s eyes. John stroked his face and hair, letting his eyes speak to Sherlock first.

“Eight. I’ve got to get up soon. I have my session with Claire this morning,” John said with trepidation, and just like that the mood shifted. Sherlock looked away, trying to not show how much that thought bothered him.

“Oh right, yes of course,” he said absently, clearing his throat and deciding to burrow into John’s neck. John could tell he was trying to act like it didn’t bother him, avoiding eye contact, but the snuggling was a benefit he could live with, so he didn’t complain. Sherlock’s curls tickled at the edge of his nose and he moved them about until he could find a comfortable spot for his chin to settle against Sherlock’s head.

“I think we’ve done what she asked – our homework? I feel like we’ve overcome a fair number of hurdles over the last few weeks,” John said, a little proudly. Sherlock thought it was adorable how John wanted to impress her, to do well at this and it made him smile, despite the dread in the pit of his stomach.

“I’d say those hurdles have been suitably pulverised,” Sherlock joked, making John blush. “This has been so nice – just having a few weeks to focus on _us_. Without any of that other stuff.”

“We managed to even fit exams in there too,” John teased back.

“Surprising since I didn’t think I’d ever be motivated to get out of this bed again!” Sherlock said and they both laughed at that, releasing some of the tension. Sherlock was definitely insatiable once he was given the freedom to be physical with John, and John, in turn, had taken to his new-found confidence with vigour too. There was no doubt that they were back in sync and enjoying every spare moment alone together. Sherlock rolled out of John’s grasp and spread himself over the rest of the bed with a loud contented sigh, allowing his long arms and legs to take up the entire space, other than the small edge that John was occupying. More and more as John’s memory had improved, as their sex life had progressed and as the pressure of uni work had settled, there had been more laughter in Baker Street. It had been refreshing for them both. As they lay there together just enjoying the morning quiet and letting themselves wake up, John looked at this beautiful man lying beside him and his heart swelled with so much love, but also with a little bit of fear.

“Sherlock …” John was hesitant to broach it again now that Sherlock was smiling and relaxed, but he knew he had to. “I know last night you said you _would_ come with me … but …”

“John, it will be okay. _I_ will be okay,” Sherlock reassured him. The feeling in his stomach belied the sentiment, but he didn’t need to let John know that.

“You don’t _have_ to come, though. I don’t expect you to put yourself through that. I just want to be clear.” John reached over and put his hand flat on Sherlock’s toned stomach, enjoying the slight ripple in the muscles at the contact. He needed to reassure Sherlock.

“Hey.” Sherlock tipped back over towards John and reached up with his long arm to cup John’s jaw with his large, elegant hand. John leaned into the touch.

“I know. I know you don’t expect it. But Claire was right. It’s important for _both_ of us. And what sort of a partner would I be if I left you to do this alone?” Sherlock had a renewed confidence and John hoped this was not an act. Sherlock could be very good at acting when he needed to be.

“It’s just that last time …” John began.

“I know. And I can’t promise that I will be okay with reliving the worst of our past. But I can _be_ there. I can do that. And I know you’re there with me. We’re doing this, together. Okay?” Sherlock finished. John nodded and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. He could see that Sherlock was terrified but determined. He knew exactly how that felt. They were a team and they would make it through together.

* * *

“Sherlock, how are you feeling today? I’m pleased to see you came back,” Claire said gently.

The two of them smiled at her, and she gave John a separate look to check in, as Sherlock passed her. John gave her a small, almost indiscernible, nod in reply that indicated Sherlock was on board and it should be okay. _God, he hoped it was going to be okay._

Claire could feel the tension pouring off both of them. They were apprehensive. John clearly enjoyed the thrill of this more than Sherlock, which was surprising to her. Given what she knew of them so far, she had thought John was the more reserved of the pair. Instead, Sherlock was incredibly cautious, which was understandable given his intense fear of relapsing and disappointing John. On the other hand, John wanted answers. He wanted all the pieces to be back in place in his brain, so he needed to get through these sessions. Sherlock, in contrast, was constantly on a knife’s edge, ready to tip over to breaking point, just awaiting a trigger. Claire wondered if John was wilfully ignoring that fact, in his rush to tick off his goals, or whether love had blinded him from seeing how much Sherlock was holding it together to service his needs. Today would be very telling. If they could get through this, not much would be able to break them.

“Okay John, let’s get right into this. I know you are both anxious. But I will be here with you. We’re _both_ right here, aren’t we Sherlock?” She encouraged, including Sherlock to try and rally them together as a team. Sherlock sat bolt upright at his end of the couch, unable to move, but gave an unsettled, forced smile to Claire. “You know what to do, John. Relax yourself and go into your corridor.” 

John nodded and closed his eyes, settling himself into the cushions with a couple of deep breaths.

“I call mine a _mind palace_ ,” Sherlock stated, and John opened one eye to give him a loving but annoyed look. “Sorry I’m just nervous,” he said to Claire, settling himself in as well, fidgeting with the tassels on the scarf he had worn today. John reached over, with his eyes shut and put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh, to remind him gently to be calm and let him focus.

John didn’t waste any time. His heart was racing already. He didn’t know if _relaxed_ was the word to sum up anything like what he felt right now. He knew he needed to go through this. He was terrified for Sherlock and for himself. He was so nervous he couldn’t eat breakfast this morning. Sherlock had managed a coffee at least. The two of them had gripped so tightly to each other all the way here in the cab, and all the way into the office. They had barely said a word, but they both knew that despite being terrified, they were feeling far more secure than they had all along.

John took a deep breath and tried to focus on the corridor. Unlike the other times, there was no scenery, no colours. It was just dark, it was cold, and it was empty. He suspected this would be a much harder memory to find his way to. But nothing seemed to direct him anywhere. He stood, expecting something to guide him. Something always guided him. This time it was like his brain had stalled or had run out of information. He didn’t move, hoping something would come to him as it always had.

“What’s happening?” Sherlock asked Claire quietly. John could hear it as if it was echoing behind him in the corridor. He was in a very relaxed state, but he could still hear them distantly.

“Not sure …” Claire whispered, concentrating on John closely but not wanting to distract him. “It doesn’t usually take him this long to settle into the memories. John? Try to focus on something from your memory, from the time you want to visit,” she directed him gently.

John was still stuck. Nothing was happening. He was just standing in a dark empty space. He closed his eyes.

“John …?” Sherlock asked. Claire gave him a stern look, holding her hand up to silence him. He was not supposed to interfere, but he couldn’t help it. John was just sitting there, silent. It was unnerving. He tried again. “ _John?”_

And suddenly Sherlock’s voice was all John needed to trigger it, to get his mind working. Suddenly John was not in his corridor but sitting inside a dark cab, travelling along a road. His heart had started racing and Sherlock’s voice was no longer drifting to him from behind. It was coming into his ear, through his phone – the cold of the small device creating a tingling on the skin of his ear as he held it up. His hand was shaking slightly. He felt … scared.

“ _John …? I have a list, John …”_ Sherlock’s voice sounded distant, different, lost. _He’s got a list. That means he’s taken enough to be worried about it._

“Sherlock, I’m on my way! Mycroft has helped me locate you. Just wait for me!” John said frantically into his phone.

“Don’t John. Don’t come. I’m fine. I’m sorry. _”_ It was all John heard before the phone disconnected.

“Don’t hang up, _Sherlock!_ Damnit!” John dropped his phone frantically in his lap, looking outside the window of the cab, trying to think. He could see they were in a suburban street. It was dark. This street was not well lit – a leafy area – the streets lined with large trees. The brick houses were elegant but modest. John had not been this far out before, aside from at his own parents’ place. He wasn’t sure where he was going. “Are we nearly there?” he urged the driver.

“Yes, just up ahead here,” the cabbie said. And as if on cue, John looked through the front windscreen and could see cars lined along the street, getting more banked up as they progressed. The slight thudding of distant loud music, and lights up ahead in one large house, signalled a party, which set John’s senses to full alert. _Sherlock was at a party?_ There were people gathered out the front of one house in particular.

The cab finally stopped. “This is as close as I can get. That part of the street is too narrow with all the cars,” the cabbie said. John got the distinct impression the cabbie seemed to be unhelpful and wouldn’t have driven any further even if he could. But he politely tossed the money to him, adding some extra to be generous and opened the door, not waiting for change.

He leapt out, slamming the door and running along the street, past the parked cars and groups of people, frantically trying to look for Sherlock amongst them. Ahead, there was a tall person with dark hair and he suddenly grabbed at their shoulder and spun them around frantically.

“You right mate?” the man said, taken aback. _Not Sherlock._ John’s head was spinning into overdrive.

“Sorry, sorry,” John fumbled as he ran ahead to the front door of the house up ahead.

It was a lovely three storey brick home with manicured gardens and a green wooden door. From the outside it seemed like a charming family home. The music pumping through the brick dispelled any notion of that though, the sound so loud it was pulsating in John’s ribs. He couldn’t tell whether the thudding in his chest was actually the music, or his heart. After the phone call with Sherlock, the state he was in, John’s heart rate was out of control. He needed to find Sherlock. Now.

Sherlock had called John earlier. He had sounded … wrong. He was definitely not in a good head space, and then he had said things … and hung up the phone. John _needed_ to find him. He felt guilty for calling Mycroft, but he didn’t see that he had any other choice. Mycroft could track a phone. He was spooky like that. Especially when it came to his brother. And John was properly worried. He was _terrified_ in fact. Once Mycroft had sent him the location, he had jumped in a cab and been on his way. He’d managed to get Sherlock to pick up his phone one more time but that didn’t last long. He was somewhere at this party doing god knows what in the state he was in. As much as John had thought it was best for them not to see each other, he couldn’t leave him like that, alone. He knew Sherlock would be furious that he had contacted Mycroft, but he had no other option.

He had tried so hard all week to avoid Sherlock – even made the ridiculous decision to hide behind a bloody tree one day, to avoid being seen, like some kind of comical toddler. Luckily Sherlock was in enough of a state himself not to notice. He looked terrible. John felt the guilt of that acutely. _He_ had done that to Sherlock. And things with Sarah had been strained too. All of that heartache and it was not going well. Sure, Sarah had taken him back happily. She had missed him. But surely she had seen the dead look in his eyes? Even she couldn’t be that oblivious. John had thought he had done the right thing but now, _post-_ Sherlock, he was not coping. He had ignored all of her calls and texts today because he just needed time to think. And now here he was, without Sarah, running to a party to save Sherlock, like Sherlock was some kind of bloody damsel in distress. _What would Sarah think?_ Did she already know that John was a lost cause?

John reached the closed wooden door and stood for a moment, trying to decide if he was really ready to do this. After a couple of breaths to steel his nerves, he tried to knock. Not surprisingly, no-one answered – given the noise – and he laughed at himself for a moment, shaking his head at how stupid he was sometimes. _Sherlock always teased me about being stupid – he was right,_ John thought. It was a party, a noisy party: no-one cared. He tried the handle tentatively and it gave way, so he stepped inside, politely closing the door behind him. The entryway was cluttered with people moving from one room to the next, beers in hand, loudly talking. It was chaos and John suddenly feared he might not be able to find Sherlock in all of this – if he was even still here to be found.

“John!” a voice yelled out amongst the noise and he looked around trying to place the owner. Mike came bursting through the crowd from what looked like a lounge room to the right, beer in one hand which he lifted above the people as he squeezed past to reach John.

“You made it!” he yelled triumphantly.

“What? No … Mike? What are you doing here? What even is this?” John was distracted, looking over Mike’s shoulder, trying desperately to clock faces moving about the room, in the hope that a certain tall and slender man with dark curls might wander by his line of sight.

“It’s a party, John! I sent you an invite.” He looked confused. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“Seriously Mike? No … I’m not here for that. I must have missed it, sorry mate. It’s been a hell of a week. I … um … I’m actually looking for Sherlock. Have you seen him?” John asked, trying to be casual about it.

Mike gave him a surprised look. He knew about their break-up and may have been guilty of inviting Sherlock in the hope they might talk it out. Sherlock had been a mess in class all week, when he had finally come back. John, on the other hand, had not even been attending and what little Mike had seen of him, he knew John was not coping either. It wasn’t his place to question why John was chasing Sherlock now.

“Oh … yeah I think he … I _think_ he was here.” He looked behind him, scratching his head. “I did see him here earlier. Well heads up though, Sarah is also here … consider that fair warning.”

“Did you … did you see them talking to each other?” John asked urgently. _That would not be a good thing in the state Sherlock was currently in,_ John thought to himself.

“No, I don’t think … I don’t think so. I don’t know. I was surprised he came at all actually. It’s not really his scene – you know that. He did seem disappointed you weren’t here though … are you two … back on?” he ventured.

John let out a sigh, and actually took a moment to lean forward onto his thighs to catch his breath before straightening up again. All that rushing up the street, his pounding heart and the thumping music, combined with the heat of all the bodies in the small entryway, was making him dizzy. He didn’t bother to dignify Mike’s question with an answer, hoping to deflect scrutiny right now. He didn’t want to think about that yet. For now, he had to focus on Sherlock, on _finding_ Sherlock.

“He called me from here. I know he’s here. I had his brother trace his phone.” John realised how crazy it sounded as it left his mouth. He needed to justify this a little better. “Mike. He’s _taken_ something, maybe a lot of things. I need to find him, it’s really important.” And he levelled Mike with a look that left no doubt he was serious.

“Oh shit. Um … sure. I’ll have a look around for you.” Mike turned a bit to check up the stairs but made no sign of actually moving. “I haven’t seen him around for a while though, but I’ll start searching. Why don’t you go out back and have a look around? There’s more people out there,” he offered.

John glanced in both directions from their vantage point, taking in the surrounds. Not that he could take in much with the number of people squashed in. The party was clearly a success. “Is this your place Mike?”

“Yeah.” He beamed. “You like it?”

“Hard to tell with the hordes of drunken people but it seems … nice,” John approved politely.

“It’s a share house – there’s a few of us going in on the rent,” Mike said as an explanation for living in such a big house.

“Sorry I didn’t get the invite, mate. I’ve been a bit … distracted,” John admitted.

“I know, it’s okay,” Mike replied a little too quickly, feeling uncomfortable. “Are _you_ okay, John?”

“Sure …” John nodded politely, wondering how much longer he had to make friendly conversation before he was allowed to start pushing drunken people around madly, in an attempt find Sherlock. “Right, so anyway … Sherlock?” he opted for instead. “Just call my phone if you find him?” John tried to focus Mike back on task. It wasn’t looking promising.

“Sure, I’m on it,” he said confidently, although a little slurred. “You want a beer?”

“Mike! No. I don’t need a beer. _Sherlock_ ,” John reiterated.

“Course, right. Got it. I’m on it.” And he turned on his heel to walk back into the crowded room. John let out a sigh and rolled his eyes. Mike was going to be no help. He was a good friend and kind, but not very decisive. He was more like an obedient puppy dog – always willing to follow John’s lead. John shook his head affectionately, knowing his friend wouldn’t be productive and pushed through the crowds of people to the back of the house.

As he forced his way out of the back door finally, the cooler air hit him in the face and stung his eyes momentarily. It wasn’t a particularly cold night, but in contrast to inside, it caught him off guard. There were a couple of dim garden lights outside and some light coming from a brighter spotlight strapped to the lower corner of the top floor balcony, shedding enough light on the garden area for the party goers to enjoy sitting outside, without losing the party atmosphere. No-one liked bright lights at a party. John wandered through the reasonably sized back garden, taking in the people, hoping to recognise Sherlock among them. His gut already told him Sherlock would not be socialising with these people. Little clumps of students were gathered – some on the ground, some on chairs, drinking and laughing. One corner of the garden even had a small fire pit that a group had settled around – some telling stories, a couple of young lovebirds kissing passionately, ignoring their surrounds. In another area, someone had a guitar and was singing to their friends. John knew he may have looked ridiculous, but he had the sudden urge to look under a large shrub at the back of the yard. Perhaps Sherlock was huddled under the low branches. It seemed like the perfect place to hide away from people. But no such luck. He stopped at the back of the garden, taking in the whole area. It was hard to see faces but he was fairly certain Sherlock was not here. His heart began racing again as he realised he had no idea where to find him, and no idea what state he was actually in. _Was he even still conscious? Was he even still here?_

Pulling out his phone again, he tried ringing one more time. From somewhere nearby, he heard Sherlock’s ringtone and he turned quickly in shock. His ears directed him towards the house again and as he got closer, he looked up, shielding his eyes from the spotlight obscuring his ability to see properly. But sure enough, there on the third-floor terrace, balanced on the corner, was Sherlock’s unmistakable figure in his large coat.

_“Oh god,”_ John gasped, unsure what to do now. “Jesus Sherlock, answer your bloody phone!” he cursed quietly to himself as he waited, staring up at Sherlock’s figure, unable to move. Unable to choose what path to take.

“John?” the tentative voice answered finally.

“Sherlock. Oh, thank god! You hung up on me before,” John chastised him, in a swell of fear and relief.

“John, I’m sorry. _I’m sorry_ … sorry I called. I didn’t mean to worry you.” Sherlock’s voice was sad, floating.

“No, Sherlock listen to me. I’m here. Don’t be sorry. I’m here, look down. I’m right here,” John said frantically.

“You’re here?” And the relief in Sherlock’s voice stabbed him right in the heart.

Most of the people nearby were too drunk to pay any notice but he could hear a couple of people gathering behind him to watch the drama unfold, commenting on Sherlock standing on the ledge to each other. One drunk person even cried out: _“Romeo! Romeo!”_ From across the garden.

“That guy’s an idiot. Doesn’t he know Juliet is the one on the balcony?” Sherlock said with disdain, more to himself, and John couldn’t help letting out a half laugh despite the tension. _God, he missed this man._

“Sherlock you … you sounded strange on the phone. What have you done? What have you taken?” John demanded.

“Sorry John …” he continued.

“No, Sherlock … what are you doing? You’re scaring me. I want you to get off the ledge, okay?” John said, trying to be calm but persuasive.

“Honestly John, why do you care? We’re not seeing each other anymore. You didn’t want me,” he answered weakly. The pain in John’s chest at that statement, made him stop for a moment, holding his hand on his chest as if it would fix anything.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Will you get off that ledge … please? Look I’m coming up. I want to see you,” John said with authority.

“You don’t have to John, I’m okay.” Sherlock’s reassurance was weak.

“No, I’m coming up. I’ll be there … just wait. Don’t move okay? _Do not_ move.” John hung up the phone and started to run back inside, dialling Mycroft as he went. The density of people was irritating and slowed his progress back inside. The music was loud enough to make it hard to concentrate or hear on the phone, but he needed to make the call.

“John.” The voice was stiff.

“Mycroft, I’ve found him. He’s taken something. I don’t know what he’s taken. _I don’t know what to do!_ ” John was frantic, his words spilling out in a flurry.

“John, just stay calm and breathe.” Mycroft was surprisingly collected and much less menacing than John expected. He had been helpful earlier this evening too. Given that he had implored John to end things, it was an unexpected turn to be getting help. It really showed John how much Sherlock’s brother actually loved him, despite what Sherlock thought about it. He was under no illusions that Mycroft was doing this for his benefit, though. He suddenly found himself getting emotional, having Mycroft’s support and, feeling the pressure of the situation, John couldn’t help a sob escaping. _“Mycroft …”_

“Listen to me John. Stay focussed,” he said sternly, which was all John needed to hear to snap back to attention.

“He said something about a list to me earlier. He has a list? Something like that? Is that the list you told me about? _The drug list?_ ” John asked, trying to focus on Mycroft while making his way up the flight of stairs. There were people leaning on the railing talking loudly and one couple making out against the wall, while others moved up and down the stairs, complicating John’s route through. He was trying to hear Mycroft over the noise and his heart would not stop beating wildly, the thudding in his ears competing with the music and the conversations around him.

“Yes, the list. Good. Well then, you’re fine. Just get there. Keep him conscious and get that list. Once you’ve seen how he is, if you need to, call an ambulance or get him to the hospital. Give them the list, they’ll know what to do …” he paused. “John can you do this?”

“Yes … yes of course I can,” John said, stopping briefly. He could do this. _He had to do this._ His heart was aching for Sherlock to be okay. Of course he would do this. “Look, Mycroft, despite whatever you think of me right now, I do love your brother and I never wanted anything to happen to him.” He continued to push through people up the stairs with renewed resolve.

“I know that John. Of course, I know that. I’m partly to blame here. I know that too.” Mycroft was still business-like but there was a softness that was surprising. It sounded like he’d had a change of heart. “I’m going to be on the next flight back from Paris, John.”

“I _will do this_. I will look after him. I promise you Mycroft.”

“I know. Keep me posted. And John …?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes?” John stopped at the top of the second flight of stairs, leaning against the wall, his finger pressed into his other ear to block the noise better and catch his breath.

“I _am_ sorry. I was wrong. He needs you. Maybe after this …” Mycroft didn’t finish that thought but just the edge of a promise was all John needed to feel reassured that maybe, just maybe, things with Sherlock could be possible. Maybe Mycroft wouldn’t stand in the way now. He had tried things his parents’ way, Sarah’s way. He knew that wasn’t working for either of them. He and Sarah had been on dates, spent awkward dinners together, tried to get back into the routine. The sex was … fine. It just was not the same for John now. Before Sherlock, he didn’t know what was possible, that his heart could feel _that_ full. Sarah was lovely and in any other circumstance, if Sherlock hadn’t accepted his advances, if they hadn’t gone down that road, he quite possibly would have married Sarah, or someone like her. He really thought that’s what he had wanted. He thought it would be easier. But now that he had it … he knew it was not what he wanted. He had _had_ the one he wanted … and he had let him go. And now he had to try and repair it all, before Sherlock burned it all to the ground.

“Let’s just get him safe first okay?” John said, his voice still shaky. He knew Mycroft would pick up on that, but he hoped it would sound less weak than it felt. He wanted to reassure Mycroft that he was invested now.

At the top of the stairs there were two doorways, left and right. He stopped for a moment. Sherlock had the knack for this sort of thing. _Think John._ Remembering which side of the house Sherlock had been standing on, he flew into the left bedroom, not knocking first. A couple had made themselves at home on the bed there, gasping as John burst through the door. John ignored them and ran straight to the other side of the room, where two French doors with ceiling to floor glass panels opened out onto a terrace. There was enough light outside, that he could see Sherlock’s outline through the glass. The door was very slightly ajar but as he went to push, the wood stuck. “Sherlock? Sherlock!” he cried out, rattling at the old door which wouldn’t open. The couple on the bed gathered their extra bits of clothing and left the room hurriedly, giving John worried glances, but not wanting to stay around to be involved in the unfolding drama. John had to force the door open with his shoulder.

“Sherlock!” he burst out onto the balcony. “What the hell are you doing!?” John demanded storming towards him. Sherlock was balanced on the outer side of the railings, on the ledge just before the guttering. He turned his head to look as John rushed forward, hand outstretched. “Okay, get away from the edge now.”

“John you found me.” He sounded happy, but his speech was slurred. John was frantically trying to assess the situation.

“I called Mycroft.” John decided it was best to get that out of the way first.

“Ugh John. Why would you do that?” he asked, turning slightly and delivering a dramatic eye roll. The change in angle made John edge forward, nervously.

“Careful!” He was not comfortable watching Sherlock teeter on the ledge in this state, particularly when combined with the cement pavers three storeys below. “I was _terrified_ Sherlock. I called him because I was terrified,” he admitted, his eyes searching for Sherlock’s. Sherlock looked away, not able to hold John’s gaze but John caught enough of a glimpse to notice the dark circles under his eyes, his pupils blown wide, the stubble on his chin. His stomach turned over at the sight of Sherlock looking so unwell, so unlike his usual lively self. Yet even with the buzz of fear, John couldn’t help the butterflies that started, just seeing Sherlock again, finally.

“I’m just chilling John. Relax! It’s a party,” Sherlock yelled, waving his hands about in the air. From below, some of the drunken students cheered along with him.

“What are you doing? _Relax? Just chilling?!_ Are you serious?” John was scared but also furious. _Look at the mess Sherlock was in._ Even though he knew he was responsible for at least some of this, he couldn’t believe Sherlock would do this, would risk himself like this. Despite everything Mycroft had told him about Sherlock and how he might handle a break up, John had secretly hoped he was exaggerating. It didn’t seem like that was the case. “Sherlock _you_ don’t chill. That’s not you,” he scoffed, but his voice was edged with concern.

“You don’t know me! How would you know?” Sherlock said, a little annoyed.

“Of _course,_ I do. Don’t be ridiculous. You _know_ I do,” John tried to reassure him. _How could he get Sherlock to listen?_ “You scared me. Your phone call … scared the living daylights out of me. What are you even doing here?” John asked.

“I … uh … Mike invited me,” he announced proudly. “He said you might be coming and … so I came … to see you.” He sounded guilty but he had turned around to face John, hands braced on the railing between them.

John could see some party goers gathering below, watching the scene unfold, probably hoping there would be a dramatic dive off the balcony to give them an exciting story to tell their friends or post online: _I was there – I saw it all happen._ It made John’s stomach turn.

“But you … you weren’t here. You weren’t here.” Sherlock shook his head. “ _Sarah_ was here. I’ve seen Sarah. She looks … I can see why you … why you chose her, John. She’s beautiful and ever so nice. And I’m … well I’m …” Sherlock’s thoughts drifted off.

“Sherlock stop this.” John placed his hands on top of Sherlock’s on the railing. Sherlock looked down, at where their hands joined, in surprise. He had missed John’s hands so much. He looked up at John seriously.

John tilted his head to the side. “What are you doing Sherlock?”

“I told her she was very lucky to have you because you’re the best person in the world. She didn’t take that well actually … not sure why. Considering she won. She wasn’t in a good state.” Sherlock leaned closer to John, so they were eye to eye.

“You’re one to talk,” John teased, tilting his forehead to meet Sherlock’s and for a moment they stood there, breathing in each other’s space. Forehead to forehead. And then Sherlock’s manic state took him out of it again, and the moment was gone. He lifted his head and turned to face the garden, turning his back on John.

“… And I bumped into my dealer here. _Everyone’s here!”_ He gestured wildly, making John nervous. More people below cheered him on. _“_ And he … had a good stash. And I have lots of money. Did you know I have lots of money John? Oh, that’s right, that’s why you don’t love me. Because I have lots of money,” he nattered away senselessly. More to himself than to John.

“Sherlock …” John didn’t want to get into this now. Not in the state he was in.

“That’s right, isn’t it? I’ve got money and you don’t have money and so we can’t be together? I could pay for you to study I have so much money, but you need your parents to pay and they don’t want you to be with me because …” Sherlock spun back around, the movement making John flinch from fear, and he joined their foreheads together, grabbing John’s face roughly “… because I’m a _man_.” The close contact made John’s stomach churn in excitement and confusion. “ _I have a penis, John_ ,” he whispered as if it was a secret.

“Yes, Sherlock.” John couldn’t help chuckling, although the seriousness of the situation didn’t make it very funny at all. _Sherlock would be mortified to know he had talked like this,_ John thought to himself. “Yes. Yes, you do. Will you just come off the ledge please?” He pulled back from Sherlock, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re making me really anxious.”

“I don’t even know how I got here. I think I can fly …” Sherlock said happily, like he had solved an amazing riddle.

“No, you can’t! Can you please just come back in … please? Stop swinging around in the breeze and come and sit with me?” John was genuinely frustrated.

“Why John? Does it make you nervous? Am I making you nervous?” And Sherlock punctuated it by hopping on one leg and then the other, swinging his arms about. John gave him a murderous glare. “Why? Do you think something will happen to me? I didn’t think you cared – do you John? You’ve got Sarah now.”

“Sherlock!” John needed to stop Sherlock talking like this. It wasn’t good.

“Have you seen her tonight? She’s been _drinking,_ John. A lot. I don’t know why. She certainly wasn’t happy to see _me_. Did you tell her about us? Does she know that I’ve … that we’ve … she certainly didn’t seem very happy for someone who … who got the boy,” Sherlock teased, leaning out further, and only holding on with one hand.

“No! No, Sherlock. Will you just …” John grabbed at his coat. “… just come back over the railing … please?!” he screamed, and as he pulled at Sherlock’s coat arm, Sherlock finally obliged, climbing over the railing. With his long limbs, John knew he would usually clear a railing like that, probably in a single jump. In his current state though, he crawled awkwardly over in a slow, painful limb by limb fiasco. It was like lifting a heavy toddler who didn’t know how to handle their body yet. As he finally cleared the railing, he collapsed in a heap on the ground, collecting John on the way down. There were some cheers and applause from below.

“John …” he sighed, their closeness allowing him to take in all of John. “… you always smell _so good_.” They untangled themselves and settled their backs to the railings beside each other. “You’re wearing that jumper, your blue jumper. You know I love that jumper,” Sherlock said dreamily to the space between them.

“I know. You gave it to me,” John said.

“Yes, I did, because I loved you and then you broke my heart.” Sherlock said it very plainly. It was cruel, the way he said it, although John knew it was all true. That’s exactly what happened. “But that’s okay. That’s really okay John. I will be fine. I don’t need a heart, but you needed a jumper. So, I think it worked out pretty well.” Sherlock was rambling now, not really thinking about what he said.

“Sherlock, stop it.” John was finding it hard to hear these blunt truths laid out, the guilt slapping him hard in the face. It was all innocently done. Sherlock was so off his face he was oblivious to the impact.

“Why are you here, John? Because … you said you didn’t want to see me anymore. So, we’re not. And now I’m seeing you. Why am I seeing you?” Sherlock asked.

“You _called_ me Sherlock. I’m here because you called me and I care about you, of _course_ I care about you. And I don’t want anything to happen to you … I’m _worried_ about you. You rang me in this state and now I need to help you. I can’t leave you like this,” John said, frustrated. He knew that arguing with Sherlock was pointless, but he couldn’t stop.

“John, you don’t need to worry about me. I’m fine John. I’m … fine.” Sherlock leaned in again to him. “You do smell _so good_.” And he nestled into John’s neck. John couldn’t keep his distance any more. He had come here with the plan not to interfere, aside from getting Sherlock to safety first. But here he was, nestled into his neck now, sleepily cuddled to his shoulder. John’s guilt got the better of him.

“I’m sorry. I’m _sorry_ I’ve done this to you. I’m sorry …” John started to repeat leaning his head against Sherlock’s.

“It’s okay John. I know you had to do it. I wouldn’t want to be with _me_ either. I’m not very loveable,” Sherlock mumbled into the jumper.

“That’s not true. I know that’s not true at all,” John said, starting to feel emotional. “I … I miss you.” He said it extra quietly, partly hoping the loud music would drown it out, but his voice vibrated in Sherlock’s soul as he heard it.

“Do you?” he asked, lifting his head to look into John eyes.

“Of _course_ I do. Those months we were together like that … they meant everything to me. _Everything_ ,” John said, and his voice cracked. Sherlock sat back up straight, not able to accept this information.

“You let them go though, John. You let them go … and that’s fine. If that’s what you felt you needed to do.” Sherlock adjusted his coat, realising he shouldn’t be cuddling up to John Watson – the man who didn’t want him. “You go and marry Sarah and make babies and make your parents proud. I will be just … fine,” Sherlock finished, staring off into space and losing his train of thought completely. John had never experienced Sherlock on drugs. He wasn’t enjoying it.

“You won’t be fine. You’ll be bloody _dead_ if you keep taking drugs like this. I mean, for _god’s sake Sherlock!_ Please just … look after yourself. Please don’t do this,” John said, frustrated.

“Do you worry about me John?” Sherlock sneered, and it was almost cruel in its intent.

“All the time, I worry about you … _all the time_.” John ended it on a whisper, his voice giving out on him, his head dropping in defeat.

“Did you ever really love me John?” Sherlock asked sadly, unable to look at him.

“Of course … yes. I do. I love you,” John replied looking into his lap, not even realising what he’d said, and Sherlock’s head snapped to him.

_Had John just said … that?_ “You do?”

“Of course, yes.” John made eye contact with him finally and smiled.

“You love me …?” Sherlock was sure he was mishearing things. _What was going on? Maybe the drugs had really taken effect and he was hallucinating?_

“Yes,” John simply said.

“But what about Sarah?” Sherlock demanded. Sarah was always in the way.

John didn’t know what to say. He returned to looking intensely at his hands for a long time as if they would give him the answers he needed. The silence was deafening. Even without being sober, Sherlock could tell that silence was speaking volumes to him.

“It’s okay, John.” Sherlock wanted to release him of his guilt. “I know that you’re with Sarah. That you’ve _chosen_ her. I know that you love her more than me.” He said it sadly, as if he had spent many hours accepting that fact and no amount of drugs would change that.

“Sherlock … that’s not actually … that’s _not_ actually true.” And in that moment John realised he had confirmation finally for himself. He had been unsure of his decisions and what to do – this whole time coming here, worrying. He still hadn’t been entirely sure why he was here. But now he knew.

“What’s not true? You don’t … you _don’t_ love her more than me?” Sherlock said a little hopefully. “But you’re _with_ her and not me … how does that work?” He wasn’t going to make this easy.

“Ugh Sherlock … just … god” John dropped his head to his hands.

“I’ve really missed you John,” Sherlock said suddenly, putting his head back on John’s shoulder. His fingers found their way up to John’s wrist as they always did. The cuff of his jumper was poking out from the sleeve of his jacket and Sherlock fidgeted mindlessly with the initials on the cuff.

“I was so worried about you,” John said into his hands.

“You don’t need to worry about me. I take drugs all the time John! It’s my … my speciality,” Sherlock said with dramatic flair, sitting back up.

“Sherlock.” John looked up from his hands. He didn’t like it when Sherlock joked about serious things.

“It’s okay, John.” He rolled his eyes. “I wrote the list for my brother. You know about the list, right? He told you all about that. I try not to do it too often. But I can’t always … stop it.” There was a sadness there.

“Why are you … doing this … why…?” John asked, painfully.

“Because I can’t … I can’t think straight without you,” Sherlock admitted.

“Oh Sherlock,” John sighed.

“I can’t! Before you, I was just alone. Nobody liked me very much. I’m annoying, I know that … and … smart … and I correct people. I correct the lecturers. Nobody likes me. It’s okay, I’ve always been like that. Nobody’s ever really liked me. Until you. _You_ liked me.” He smiled to himself. John did as well.

“I did. Yeah, I did. I _do_. Very much.” John took Sherlock’s hand in his and looked at it. Sherlock’s heart skipped a beat.

“And I … I loved you. You taught me how to be more … human. And you didn’t hate me for being all of those other things.” Sherlock had never been quite so self-aware, and it made John’s heart ache.

“No, Sherlock. I don’t hate you for any of those things,” John said fondly, rubbing Sherlock’s hand reassuringly.

“And even more than that … you … wanted me. I mean I don’t have a lot of experience. I don’t have _any_ experience really, but I thought the sex was pretty good.” Sherlock looked to John.

“The sex was … really good Sherlock … _really_ good.” John nodded in agreement and they sat there with their fingers intertwined, resting on John’s thigh. Their eyes were intensely glued to each other, memories of warm lovemaking clear in both their eyes. Sherlock’s trembling had settled a little bit, the tension between them calmed considerably and John hoped the drugs might be wearing off, although he suspected if Sherlock had a list, there would be hours to go yet.

“What does she have that I don’t have, John?” Sherlock asked finally.

“Please don’t do this now,” John begged, swallowing hard.

“It’s okay if you don’t love me. If you don’t want … sex with me anymore. If you don’t love me enough … to love me _more_ than Sarah. It’s okay,” Sherlock conceded, nodding in self-reassurance.

“God Sherlock, it’s not that at all.” John shook his head, annoyed at himself.

“Then what is it?” he finally snapped, taking his hand back. “What does she have that I don’t have? Because I don’t want to be with anybody else. I don’t want to meet somebody new. I don’t _want_ to get over this, John. I just want to be with you.” Sherlock began to spew out everything in his head.

John realised he had not only misjudged Sherlock’s mental state, but that he had waited too long to tell Sherlock what he was really feeling.

“You’re the only one for me. I know that. I know that to be true in my heart, in my soul and it … hurts so much.” Sherlock’s voice cracked and his breathing had started to get faster. “I can’t get it to stop hurting so much. I thought that if I … maybe if I had a big enough hit, it would stop hurting so much but it’s not going away and I can’t stop this … this pain in my chest …” he shook his head wildly, trying to comprehend what was racing through him. “… it hurts _so_ much, and I can’t get away from it and I just want it to stop. And I just want you …” Sherlock looked at John, and his eyes were slightly panicked – he couldn’t slow himself down.

“Okay Sherlock, slow down … focus on your breathing.” John tried to settle him a bit, grabbing him by both shoulders to get his attention. “Remember how to focus your breathing.”

“No John!” Sherlock pushed his arms away. “I don’t _want_ to breathe. I want to _stop_ breathing … so that I don’t have to feel this way anymore. And I’m trying to be okay with it, I am … and I’m trying to understand. I’m trying to let it go. But I can’t let it go because when I was with you I felt alive. And now I feel nothing. I feel like … _nothing_. And I want to _be_ nothing. All these drugs are not even enough to make it stop …” Sherlock let out a sob, but he couldn’t get the air to come back in his lungs, his hands planting themselves in his curls in frustration.

“Sherlock.” John grabbed on to Sherlock’s arms and tried to steady him, his breathing was out of control to the point that he was now hyperventilating. He sometimes had panic attacks and John usually could calm him before it got too bad, but with everything in his system, with his emotions so highly charged, Sherlock had lost control, and nothing was helping. John was genuinely worried he might pass out or have a heart attack in the state he was in. He was holding Sherlock firmly and their faces were close now. They stayed there, breathing together, the air between them warm. John was always able to slowly bring him back. Sherlock was watching John closely.

“Why don’t you feel that? How can you not _feel_ that? What I’m feeling?” Sherlock asked, lost and confused but his breathing had slowed a little bit with John holding on to him.

“I … I …” John couldn’t speak. He couldn’t decide whether to say it or not. “I … _do_ feel it,” he finally admitted.

“You do?” Sherlock looked at John, relief and hope in his eyes in equal measure, his breathing slowing right down as he focussed now on John’s words.

“I feel it. Of _course_ I feel it. It’s eating away at me that I feel it. I never thought that I was interested in men. You’re the only man I’ve ever loved. I can love Sarah,” John nodded. “I can _make_ myself love Sarah. She’s good and kind and beautiful and my body responds to her. We can have sex. I’m not _un_ attracted to her. But she doesn’t light a spark in me the way you do, Sherlock. God, I can’t make it feel … as good as it feels with you. I am … sorry. I am so sorry that I did this to you. I don’t know if I can undo it. But I don’t want you to be suffering.”

“Then don’t leave me, John. _Don’t_ leave me. That’s how you undo it. Stay with me. _Love me,_ ” he pleaded.

“ _Yes_.” John didn’t hesitate this time, but his voice was shaky.

“Yes?” Sherlock checked weakly, not expecting that answer.

“Yes. I want that,” he nodded. “I do. _I want that._ ”

“You do?” Sherlock sat back from John to take in his whole face, to read his body language. _Did he mean that?_

“Of course I do. Of _course_ I do Sherlock.” John shook his head looking at Sherlock in front of him, his hands still on Sherlock’s arms and he could not make himself let go. “It’s always been you. I know I tried to let that go and do right by my family, the church, _your_ family, _my_ girlfriend … but I can’t stop the way I feel.”

“You mean …?” Sherlock wasn’t willing to accept what he was hearing without a firm confirmation.

“Yeah I mean it,” John said, smiling lovingly at Sherlock, feeling settled in his decision.

_“Oh John.”_ Sherlock’s face began to crumple at this news, the relief overwhelming him, but before he could let tears out, John grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him. It was not as tender as he meant it to be, the excitement and release of the last couple of weeks all hitting him at once. Sherlock held on to both of John’s elbows, his grip tentative, as if he thought it wasn’t real. John wanted to make sure Sherlock knew it was, and how much he meant it. He put everything into that kiss. Sherlock’s lips were slightly chapped but completely responsive given his drugged state. He was still quivering a bit, but he let out a loud contented sigh of relief, so John knew he was consenting to the contact. The stubble that Sherlock had let grow added extra eroticism to the kiss and John melted into him further.

“Sherlock, god I missed you.” John stopped kissing long enough to gasp. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“John I’m just glad to have you back. _I need you,_ ” Sherlock sighed.

“I know, I know, I know. I need you too.” John looked all over Sherlock’s face, taking in every detail. He stroked Sherlock’s face, moving his curls back as he loved to do.

“Now that I’ve got you back, Mycroft is going to get a serious talking to,” Sherlock scolded.

“It’s okay – he’s already _well_ sorry. He knows he did the wrong thing. He’s worried about you. He’s on his way back from Paris now in fact,” John added.

“Actually, you know what? Can we not talk about my brother while we’re trying to …” Sherlock suddenly sulked.

John laughed. “Sure, sounds like a plan. I mean, you started it. But okay.” And he smiled at this man, this difficult sulky man that he had missed so very much. He leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s forehead, then his cheek, then his stubbly chin, and down to his collarbone. The fact that he was suddenly allowed to kiss Sherlock like this, after thinking he would never do it again, was thrilling. Sherlock's body was still vibrating uncontrollably, from the heady cocktail of emotions mixed with the drugs.

“You okay?” he checked.

“ _Very_ ,” Sherlock said simply, not committing to any more sentiment. John lavished some more kisses to his neck. God _how he’d missed this beautiful neck._ The excitement of the moment overcame John and he grabbed at Sherlock’s coat, stripping it back from his shoulders, returning to Sherlock’s lips to take them again. He wanted to inhale all of this man. Sherlock wrangled his coat off his arms without losing contact with John’s lips.

John’s hands grabbed at the buttons on his shirt, fumbling a bit but pushing them out of the holes firmly and pulling Sherlock’s shirt out of its tight tuck to finally reveal his bare chest. He let out a sigh at the sight of it, before running his fingers down Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock let out a gasp as well. It had only been a couple of weeks apart, but the contact after not seeing each other, speaking or touching for that time was so satisfying. Neither of them could get enough.

Sherlock broke away from the kiss to suck in some air in heaving breaths, bracing himself with a hand on John’s shoulder. He just needed to take a moment. Things had changed so quickly. He had not been prepared for this and he couldn’t get his head to stop spinning, to right itself and make sense.

“Sherlock are you all right?” John asked, concerned. “We should stop …”

“No!” Sherlock burst out, then realised how crazy he sounded before he calmed himself. “No. I don't want to stop. It’s just … my head’s spinning. I’m sorry John I just …”

“How much have you really taken Sherlock? Where’s the list?” John said firmly, not letting Sherlock fob this off as unimportant. Sherlock hesitated.

“Too much,” he admitted quietly, shaking his head. “I just wanted it all to be over. I took whatever he had, and I took a lot of it. There’s still some in my back pocket … for later,” he admitted. “I just wanted to make it all stop.” He closed his eyes to try and steady his brain.

“ _Oh Sherlock,”_ John said sadly, cupping his face. “I want to take you to the hospital to get checked out and then I want to take you home and look after you properly, make sure you’re okay. Can we do that?”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll go anywhere with you, John. So long as we’re together.”

John took a moment to just look at Sherlock, at how completely shattered he looked.

“I thought I’d lost you.” He swallowed hard at the admission. “When you called me. I thought you’d overdosed,” John admitted.

“Well, _overdose_ is relative … for a drug addict isn’t it?” Sherlock suddenly joked. “I’ve taken a lot, make no mistake. I’m just … very good at it.” And he grinned cheekily.

“Ugh … you’re infuriating,” John scoffed.

“Now get back here and kiss me. I’ll be okay. We can go in a bit. Just kiss me first,” Sherlock demanded, grabbing at the front of John’s shirt.

John didn’t waste any time, running his hands over Sherlock’s bare chest again and back up to hold his face as he kissed Sherlock passionately. They found their rhythm very quickly and as they kissed, John kept talking awkwardly, wanting desperately to reassure Sherlock.

“I can’t be with her … not the way I was before … because now I know _you_ … I know what it is to be loved by you … I’ve tried … but all I can think about is you … I never stopped … _Sherlock._ It’s always been you, too. _It’s always been you._ ”

The sound of the patio door hitting the outside wall startled them both, followed by the sound of glass hitting the ground and shattering on the tiles. As John’s eyes adjusted to the light from the bedroom, shining behind the person standing there, he realised it was Sarah in the doorway. Her glass was in pieces at her feet, she stood frozen with a look of sheer horror plastered on her face.

“John …?” she asked confused, although John was pretty sure there was not much to be confused about.

“ _Sarah_ …” John gasped.


	12. Brace for Impact

“John …?” Sarah’s face was frozen in horror.

“Sarah …” John’s breathy, shocked response sounded guilty and Sherlock’s stomach sank. He knew what that meant. Just when he thought maybe he had John back.

They were all paralysed, nobody moving. Sherlock’s curls were all messed up, shirt draped wide open, coat strewn on the floor. John’s hands were still frozen holding Sherlock’s face, his lips plump from being kissed. Sarah’s mouth was gaping wide and unable to speak. There was no doubt what was going on.

John had to admit in that moment, his heart didn’t know where to fall. Sarah stood there looking incredible in a short green dress. She had amazing legs. Sarah always wore just the right kind of dress to be sweet-not-too-sexy but accentuate her best features. Her blonde hair was tied up into a ponytail, a matching green ribbon tied in it, some gentle curls framing her face. She had gorgeous hazel eyes and the green dress just seemed to bring them out. He had told her he liked it when she wore green, so here she was, dressed to impress. In normal circumstances, if he had answered her messages today and they had gone on a date, this would be the perfect outfit. That was, if he didn’t have this stunning man beside him – gorgeous dark curls framing his blue eyes, purple shirt unbuttoned and spread wide, so he could take in that muscular chest. The contrast of the dark shirt against his pale skin was mind blowing. The palms of his hands tingled from the sensation of Sherlock’s stubbled jaw still beneath them. He never wanted to let go of this man. He had never felt so confused as he did in this moment.

“Sarah I …” he began, dropping his hands into his lap suddenly, trying desperately to think of what to say.

“Don’t. Don’t even bother John.” Her voice was cold, and it felt like a physical slap. “Someone downstairs told me you were creating quite the drama, Sherlock. I had to come up and see for myself,” she jeered at him. “I didn’t expect to find you here too John, although I don’t know why I’m surprised."

Sherlock couldn’t say anything. The embarrassment he felt, sitting here in his state, a complete physical and mental mess, was acute – not how he wanted to triumph over Sarah, on the ground with his shirt wide open. The dread came next, once he felt John’s hands leaving his face. _This was not going to go his way._ He was never that lucky.

“Somehow I knew this would happen,” she scoffed. “I knew you would never let him go, John. You would never be able to come back to me. Your parents really thought we might be able to make a go of it. They wanted it for you so badly. I can’t believe you would do this to us. You’ve humiliated me all over again. Why didn’t you just _stay_ with him? Why would you come back to me and make promises like that?” She was in a mess of angry tears now, the alcohol influencing a much more hysterical state than John had ever seen her in. She was normally so calm, even when they had broken up the first time. “Well, you can have him, _Sherlock_. Because I’m done. Screw you, John Watson!” She stormed back out through the bedroom.

“Sarah!” John snapped, scrambling to get up.

“John? Don’t go!” Sherlock grabbed at his arm desperately.

“Sherlock, I need to smooth this over first. Just let me …” John tried to justify weakly. _Was that what he needed to do?_ He was trying to do the right thing. That’s what he should do. Explain to Sarah first. _Wasn’t it?_

“What do you mean? Are you going to go back to her then? John please don’t go. Don’t leave me _again_ ,” Sherlock whined, still grabbing on.

“Sherlock, I _have_ to talk to her – to explain! Just stay here and I will be right back.” Using the railing to pull himself up awkwardly, untangling Sherlock’s hands from his arm, he straightened his jacket before running after her.

“Sarah! Sarah, wait!” he called.

He didn’t take any notice of the people he shoved roughly past to get down the stairs this time. He took them at frantic speed, trying desperately to reach Sarah before he lost her in the crowd. He already knew how hard it was to find anyone in this place. He heard Sherlock call out from behind, but he couldn’t stop. Something in his gut told him he had to stop Sarah first. As he made it to the last flight he saw her with her jacket on, about to leave, car keys in her hand. _Oh no._

“Sarah no!” he called out, over the music.

“Get stuffed!” she yelled back, as he jumped the last couple of stairs trying to get to her.

A group of large, burly men stood between the stairs and Sarah at the door, taking in the exchange. As John reached the bottom, one of the men grabbed him. “Hey man, what are you doing? Leave her alone!”

“Get off me, you thug.” John wrestled with him, but he didn’t have the muscle to win that battle. Sarah smirked, pausing at the open doorway to enjoy the exchange briefly. John was surprised at the sudden hate he saw in her eyes in that moment.

“John? What’s going on?” Mike had run in to check on the commotion. Sarah used the opportunity to get out of the front door before John could stop her.

“Mike! Thank god.” John sighed, frustrated and detained by one of the larger men in the group. “Stop Sarah, or get these guys off me. _I need to get to Sarah_ ,” John demanded, clearly in distress. Mike was confused by John’s behaviour tonight and in the last two weeks, if he was honest. He always felt a little out of the loop with John, always too polite to ask intensely personal questions.

“Okay well hold on. What’s going on first?” Mike tried to be the diligent party host, but his speech was still a little slurred which didn’t give him much authority.

John tried to wriggle free of the man who had his arms behind his back now, like some sort of over-eager rogue police officer. “Get off me you twat! That’s my _girlfriend_!” he yelled finally.

“Oh, sorry mate. No hard feelings,” he said, releasing John and giving him a pat on the back. “You can’t be too careful these days.” Shrugging his shoulders, he decided to move on with his buddies to another area of the party and just like that the front doorway was cleared and John realised Sarah was already gone.

“Yeah, that’s his girlfriend guys!” Mike called after them in support of John. 

_As usual, late to the fight_ , John thought to himself.

“Oh hey – you found Sherlock! That’s great,” Mike said, beaming innocently.

John looked back, his heart sinking with the realisation that Sherlock had followed him down the stairs and overheard everything.

Sherlock had stumbled backwards onto the stairs, wounded by the exchange – _girlfriend._ His hand on his bare chest near his heart as if he was physically pained. His dishevelled state far more apparent in the brighter lights of the house.

_“No,”_ Sherlock whispered, shaking his head.

“Sherlock …” John said guiltily. He could see Sherlock was not handling this well, but he needed Sarah to be okay first. “Please, Sherlock just wait here. _Please?”_ John came forward and grabbed his hands. “I’ll come back for you. I will. We’re going to go get you checked out. Just stay here and let me talk to her first. I can’t let her leave like that. Just let me fix this,” he implored.

_“Girlfriend …”_ Sherlock whispered again, more to himself, confused. His eyes were glazed over, he was off in his mind palace.

“Mike can you help please?” John directed back at Mike, who nodded obediently, not entirely sure what to do. John didn’t wait to discuss details but ran out the door after Sarah.

Taking in the scene outside the house, he could see Sarah further down the street. Her car was away from the chaos in the narrower part of the street where he had been dropped by the cab earlier. That part of the street was darker, one of the street lamps was apparently broken. The road was slightly wider and had more dense trees. The moon was not bright tonight which didn’t help, but he could see enough to spot her, and he jogged ahead to catch up to her. She stumbled a little in her heels as she walked towards the car.

“Sarah please don’t!” John yelled, following her to the car.

“Oh John, just leave me alone! I’m going home!” she shouted, punctuating the thought by dropping her keys into the gutter.

“Sarah, you are in no state to be driving. For god’s sake. What are you doing?” John cried out, frustrated.

“I can’t be _here_ John. I can’t be here with _you_ ,” she spat. “Please just leave me alone. I think we’re done. You’ve made that pretty clear,” she yelled.

Sherlock came bursting out of the house, looking around frantically for them. “John!” he yelled out, drawing the attention of people close by.

Mike following behind being no help at all. “Sorry, John,” he called out. “He’s really strong.”

John rolled his eyes at Mike’s inability to wrangle Sherlock, although he knew first hand that it was easier said than done.

“See? And _there_ he is! Right on cue,” Sarah scoffed, gesturing towards Sherlock, who was stumbling more than she had been. “I knew you two would end up back together. I _knew_ this was a mistake. Thinking that anything between us was ever going to work out again. You’re clearly in love with Sherlock. I have no place in this.” She was so angry, but John could tell she was also hurt. He hoped that letting her shout at him might be enough to relieve the tension and eventually get her to reconsider giving him the keys.

“Sarah please?” John pleaded.

“I don’t know why you’re so ashamed John, honestly. Why don’t you just own up to who you are? _Man the fuck up!_ You’re an adult now. Christ!” She gestured to the sky as if there might be some sort of religious intervention to get John to admit it. “Sherlock deserves better than that too. Don’t you Sherlock?” she directed at him now that he was close enough to hear properly.

Sherlock was taken aback by being addressed directly and stopped in his tracks, not knowing what to say to that.

“Mike … please?” John called past Sherlock to Mike, who was still trying to catch up, puffed and overwhelmed. On cue, Mike got close enough to Sherlock to grab his shoulder and Sherlock turned, planning to wrestle Mike off him, only to fall to the road off balance.

“It’s not just me here that you’re hurting. _Look at him_. He’s a mess! He’s a bigger mess than I am. I just came out to drink because I was so sick of … ugh … feeling like I was second rate in your eyes. _I could see it._ Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Sarah … no of course not.” John tried to placate her, trying desperately not to check on Sherlock – to show Sarah she was his sole focus right now.

“Just look at your boyfriend. _Look at him!_ He’s heartbroken. And he’s clearly off his face. _I’m_ just fine.” She rolled her eyes. Sherlock struggled to his feet, stumbling around as he got his balance again.

“Sure … you look great,” Sherlock sneered at Sarah with sarcasm. She didn’t appreciate the barb.

“Sherlock … I hope he really loves you as much as I _think_ he does. Because if he doesn’t, he’s really broken you. He’s broken _both of us_. For nothing.” Sarah gave Sherlock a pitying look of warning and then pointed a look at John, waiting for his reaction.

“Sarah, just get away from the car. Just give me the damn keys and I’ll drive you home.” John was getting annoyed now. Not only was Sarah being difficult, but she was messing with Sherlock as well. It was bad enough that he was being cruel to Sherlock to keep him safely out of the way, he didn’t want her upsetting him any further. He had promised Mycroft he would look after Sherlock. This was definitely not going to plan.

“Oh, look at you being all chivalrous now,” she shouted out to the street. Some of the party goers had stopped their conversations closer to the house and nearby on the street to watch the fight unfold.

“You’ve been drinking,” John stated flatly.

“I don’t … I don’t _care_ John. What difference does it make to you?” She laughed mirthlessly.

“Please give me the keys?” he pleaded.

“No, bugger off!” she yelled.

“Fine, well I’m going with you then, so that you at least drive home safely. You need to promise me you’ll pull over if I ask you to,” John said stubbornly, opening the passenger door to prove he was serious. Sarah weighed that up in her head and it was clear she really wanted John to come with her anyway. She grinned slightly, like she had won a momentary victory. She had beaten Sherlock at least.

“Fine. Just as long as you’ll sit quietly and leave me be.” She knew it was ridiculous, but she couldn’t help it. She wanted John for herself.

“Fine,” he agreed, starting to get in the car. Sherlock rushed over to him before he could get in.

“John … don’t go.” Sherlock grabbed at John’s elbow. “Don’t get in the car with her please. Not like that. Please. Stay with me,” he begged. “You promised.”

“Sherlock, I _will_ come back. Just let me get her home safely,” John said quietly to him. “Mike – please! A little help here …” he yelled frustrated over at Mike to collect Sherlock again. Sherlock bristled at being treated like a child, and the fact that John was avoiding eye contact made him nervous.

“ _He’s_ not getting in my car,” Sarah paused, directing the statement towards Sherlock with a tilt of her head.

“I wouldn’t want to get in your stupid car anyway,” Sherlock sneered back at her.

“ _Shut up_ Sherlock!” John was harsher than he wanted to be. He just needed Sherlock to get away from Sarah so he could calm her down, in any way necessary. Why _couldn’t_ Sherlock understand it didn’t mean anything? It was an act, to get Sarah to listen to him. Didn’t all the things he had told Sherlock earlier mean anything? “Just … go and wait with Mike. _Please_. Go inside.” He tried to show Sherlock what he was trying to do with his eyes, but Sherlock was too far gone to really understand the subtlety of the moment. John could see he was hurt by it, but he couldn’t stop to fix that now. _Later. He would explain it later._

“John …?” he let out on a sob, sounding so desperate, it hurt John to hear it. Sherlock had started to cry, and it took all of John’s strength to ignore that.

“No Sherlock,” John said firmly, shrugging Sherlock’s arm away, but he turned to him, and put his hand gently on Sherlock’s chin to look him right in his beautiful eyes. “ _Go_ ,” he said firmly and then stepped into the passenger seat of the car.

Sarah’s breath was heaving. John needed to focus on her first. He would worry about Sherlock afterwards. He knew he could make it up to him later and reassure him. This was more urgent. He was trusting Mike to look after Sherlock for the moment. He could hear them arguing and wrestling with each other outside the car, and he could hear Sherlock sobbing between arguments. He was crashing at an alarming rate thanks to the drugs in his system – completely irrational and unlike his usual behaviour. But he couldn’t think about that now. Sarah needed to be his priority in this moment.

“Okay Sarah. He’s out of the way. Okay? Just breathe. I want you to breathe for me,” John encouraged calmly. “You’re not in the right state of mind to be driving.” She didn’t take to being told to breathe, the way Sherlock did. But she sat with her eyes closed, considering it for a moment. John was still hopeful he could persuade her to swap seats and let him drive. Finally, she seemed to come to some sort of decision and opened her eyes to fix them on John. He could tell she was not thinking entirely rationally either, but she was definitely calmer than Sherlock. The look she gave him was suddenly almost flirtatious. The alcohol obviously giving her a new wind of confidence she didn’t normally display with him.

“You could come home with me, _John_. We could talk this through. You and I – we could still work this out,” Sarah pined, reaching over to put her hand on his cheek.

“It’s okay Sarah. Let’s just sit and talk _here_. We don’t need to drive anywhere.” John spoke gently, grabbing onto her hand to carefully move it away, but squeezing it in mock support.

John was in disbelief at her complete disregard of the situation, of what she had just seen in the house. This was why it was so easy to go back to her though. She could be oblivious or forgiving in an adorable way which made it so simple. When he had admitted that he and Sherlock had started something the first time, she had walked away from John calmly. She had been hurt, but not surprised, given Sherlock was all he ever talked about. Sherlock had never given Sarah the time of day, so they didn’t know each other well. Sherlock always made a point of leaving when she came to sit with them. He made himself scarce during those months John was with Sarah, changed the subject when John mentioned her, or busied himself with something else, only pretending to listen. Eventually he had avoided John altogether, in an apparent bid for self-protection. It had been what had finally drawn it out of them both. The jealousy. And it had been so easy for John to take that step with Sherlock the first time. It had felt like such a natural progression. Their friendship had been so intense that the obvious move had only taken a second for him to make.

Sarah had been so kind, she had not begrudged them that, despite her own heartache. She had certainly cried. But she had gracefully bowed to the side. When John had come back to her, the second time, with his parents’ interference, she had been ready, desperate even, to try again. All of them seemed to think John had just been in a momentary lapse of judgement, a phase that all students go through. They hadn’t understood the depth and magnitude of the connection he shared with Sherlock. But John had been so uncomfortable in his own skin, unable to admit it to other people. It had been so much easier for him to go back to the more conventional choice. How he had _ever_ thought that going back to Sarah was the right choice, he would never understand about himself. It was the very definition of a lapse in judgement. The irony was not lost on him.

“Let’s work this out John. I don’t want to lose you. Not really. Not if you still want me. I mean honestly John, I can see how much you love him, but do you really see a future there? Let’s talk about this. I just … I need to not _see_ him right now. I can’t think with him out there.” She shook her head, trying to block out the sounds of Sherlock’s whining outside the car on the street.

John could see a crowd gathering on the lawn in the rear-view mirror – people had started to openly watch them, unashamedly. Sarah had been right, word of their unfolding drama had made it around the party and now more by-standers were checking them out.

Outside the car, John could hear Sherlock crying, a small distance away. Mike had managed to move him, but Sherlock was determined – he pushed away from Mike and ran to the car again, this time banging on the window beside John’s head, startling them both inside.

“John! Don’t go!” Sherlock screamed through the glass.

“Sherlock. Please stop,” John begged, only looking at him briefly before awkwardly looking away.

“John. _John_. Look at me! Don’t go!” Sherlock put both his hands on the glass. He knew it was pathetic, but he couldn’t stop. He dissolved into sobs, sliding down the side of the car to the road.

Mike grabbed him roughly and pulled him up, moving him away from the car and back to the grass of a neighbouring house. Sherlock fell down, giving in to the sobs, head between his bent legs. John could still hear him from within the car and he took one more quick look over at Sherlock before trying to return his focus to Sarah and not let her see how worried he was. Sherlock looked destroyed. But John _wasn’t_ leaving him. He just wanted to help Sarah first. To get her home safely. She only lived a short way from here. Then he would come back for Sherlock. Why couldn't Sherlock understand that and just wait? He would be coming right back. He knew if he was to get through this, and give Sarah the undivided attention she needed, he had to turn off his emotions to Sherlock. He hadn’t yet put his seatbelt on, still hopeful they wouldn’t actually drive anywhere, so he turned his body away from the window. He didn’t want to see Sherlock – even in his periphery. He gave Sarah his full attention, ignoring the sobs coming from the side of the street.

The sound of Sherlock outside and the realisation of everything took its toll, and Sarah began to cry too, her head in her hands. “Oh god. You’ve really made a mess of this John – of all of us,” she sobbed.

“I know. I know. I’m sorry. _I’m sorry._ I’ve done this. But please Sarah just think for a minute. You don’t have to do this. I’m happy to drive you home. It will be much safer,” John pleaded, hoping to say whatever it would take to stop her.

“I’m fine John, honestly. I haven’t had that much to drink,” She justified to herself, the urgency to escape pressing against her nerves.

“Well …” John began, not sure how tough to be on her. “I don’t agree Sarah. It’s not safe and I know you want to get away from this, but let’s just sit here. Just the two of us. I can do that. No matter what you think of me right now. We can just sit here and talk about this first. Don’t rush away.”

Sarah still hadn’t made any move to drive yet. John put his hand on her thigh in support, which only made the tears come harder, but he hoped he would finally get through to her. He cared about her.

“I just loved you, John. That’s all I did. _I loved you_. I know it wasn’t enough,” she admitted.

“Oh Sarah. You’re too good for me. You deserve way better than me. Really you do,” John said gently.

“I know,” she sniffed, trying to calm herself. “I _know_ I deserve better than this, but I wanted you anyway _John Watson_.” The tears started to settle as she convinced herself the whole situation was probably for the best. She didn’t want to share John with Sherlock anyway. She deserved someone who wanted her just for who she was. “I’ll be okay. I will.” She took in a loud sniff to clear her nose and looked at John finally. “I’m not stupid. I know how this is going to end. I see how you look at him, how _he_ looks at you. I only wish you’d ever felt that with me,” she smiled sadly and put her hand on top of John’s. “I hope that you take care of Sherlock and that he treats you right as well. Because … I _know_ you’re a good man. This has just been the wrong situation … for us.” And she gave him another smile. A gentle and caring smile. Sarah really was too good for him.

John gave her thigh a squeeze in support. “I _am_ sorry Sarah – that things haven’t worked out for us. You really are lovely.” And he leaned in and kissed her on her cheek. “Right, shall we forget this nonsense then and just go inside for a bit?”

She took in a shuddering breath but instead of stopping as he had hoped, she put the key in the ignition and started the car. “No. I definitely just want to get home John and sleep all of this off. Are you still coming?”

He paused for a moment, really thinking about it. “Sure. I need to make sure you get home safe, Sarah. If you really think you’re okay? I still want you to promise me you’ll pull over if I get worried?”

“Honestly, I feel fine. It was less the alcohol and more the shock. I’m _fine_ , John. I can drive like this,” she reassured him. She shut her eyes again to take some more calming breaths to show she was settling herself down and focussing. “Thank you,” she said under her breath to John, smiling.

Her eyes were still shut as she grabbed the gear stick to put it into drive and John’s stomach dropped at the idea that they were really going to be moving. He didn’t much like breaking rules and this was a big one to break. He justified it in his head. _I will get her to drive a block away and then convince her to pull over. Just let her get away from here first. I can help her further down the road._ His heart was thumping.

Sarah took off the hand break and indicated. Why she needed to do that in an empty street John didn’t know, but somehow it reassured him – the fact she was focussed on road rules might mean she would be okay. She only opened her eyes as her foot hit the accelerator to move forward and she turned the wheel to leave her parking spot.

Just as the car began to lurch forward into the dark street, John realised he didn’t have his seatbelt on and he settled himself back into the seat properly, turning his head to grab for his seatbelt.

“Lights,” he reminded her gently, with a smile, as he turned.

“Right, sorry,” she laughed, tilting her head to look at the light switch and adjust it, taking her eyes off the road for a second.

At the same time, John brought the seatbelt forward, and as he went to plug it in, he finally took in the road in front of him. “Sarah!” he cried out, grabbing his seat in fright with both hands as the headlights took in Sherlock’s figure standing on the dark road. The seatbelt flew out of his hand, retracting back with a loud thud against the wall of the car.

“Oh god! _John!_ ” Sarah cried out in fear and everything seemed to slow right down for both of them.

With her judgement impaired just enough, her foot moved quickly to slam on the brake pedal, her hands slamming against the steering wheel, jarring her elbows. Confusion surrounded them both as the car didn’t stop as expected but _accelerated_ and Sarah realised too late that she had slammed her foot onto the wrong pedal. Dread filled them both as they processed the scene before them.

“Sherlock!” John cried out, reaching forward, as the car pitched straight for him. Sherlock stood frozen in the headlights, a sudden look of horror and realisation on his face. John felt the colour drain from his face and his heart turned cold in fear.

Sarah, doing the only thing she could, turned the wheel hard to avoid Sherlock. John caught a glimpse of Mike grabbing furiously at Sherlock’s coat to pull him away to the ground, as the car swerved hard right, hitting the curb violently and leaving the road altogether to coast into the air.

They both screamed again from the unexpected impact.

_It’s amazing how the brain works._ John could hear the words in his head, in Sherlock’s voice, clear as day. Sherlock always thought the brain was incredible and John never appreciated it enough. In this moment, as the car moved in slow motion through the air, John could suddenly remember clearly the day he went with Sarah to buy this car. The playful lover’s tiff they had over the fact that she was buying an older, cheaper second hand car that wasn’t fitted with airbags and how she had thought the only time these things ever seemed to go off, was when something stupid happened like reversing into a garage door, or accidentally bumping the shopping trolley into the car. _It’s pretty rare that those airbags are ever needed in a car, John,_ she had scoffed. John had reluctantly admitted the car she chose was a good bargain, despite feeling she should be opting for something safer. But he hadn’t felt he could push too hard that early in their relationship – when it was still new, when he wanted to impress her. He wondered now if Sarah was thinking about that argument too. If she was wishing there were airbags too.

He also thought about how only minutes earlier, he and Sherlock had been entwined in each other, devouring each other and how much he wanted that again. How it was possible that he may never get to do that again. To do _anything_ ever again. This could be it for him.

The brain was amazing. So much was running through his brain in those few seconds, which felt like minutes.

As the car started to come back down from the air, John brought both his hands up to his face to brace for impact.


	13. The Accident

“John!”

As Sherlock stumbled out to the front lawn, he could hear John and Sarah yelling, standing beside a car further up the street.

“Sorry, John,” Mike called out to John, although he probably couldn’t hear. Mike was mostly talking to himself. “He’s really strong.”

Mike was supposed to watch Sherlock, but he was a hopeless guard dog. Sherlock knew at the best of times, Mike didn’t know how to approach him. He thought Mike was scared of him. The three of them had hung out at university together, ever since he and John had become friends, but Sherlock wouldn’t say he was particularly close with Mike. John was the cohesive factor in their relationship. Given he didn’t look in the best shape right now, he was pretty sure Mike had no idea how to begin to help. He probably had the strength to restrain Sherlock, despite being shorter, but he lacked the confidence. Sherlock was unpredictable at the best of times – even without the drugs. Mike planned to stay back and supervise at a safe distance if he could.

Sherlock staggered towards John, tripping on something or other on the ground – could have been a rogue crack in the pavement, a stick, a stray cat for all he knew. One minute he was walking, the next he had fallen down, rolling along the pavers briefly. He stumbled back upright, wiping his coat down, dazed.

“ _Look at him_. He’s a mess! He’s a bigger mess than I am,” Sherlock heard Sarah yelling at John.

As he got closer to them, he realised his head had become fuzzier. Apparently, some of the more slow-release drugs in his system had decided to rear their heads finally and he was getting a second wind. He blinked furiously a few times trying to clear his vision. He was not far from the car when he could hear their voices properly now.

“Sherlock deserves better than that too. Don’t you Sherlock?” Sherlock didn’t expect Sarah to talk to him directly. He froze in place. They had barely ever spoken – mostly Sherlock’s fault, if he was honest.

“Mike …” John called past Sherlock, to Mike. He didn’t even look at Sherlock, he looked right through him, right past him and expected Mike to handle him. Like a child. Sherlock felt suddenly ill with dread that John wasn’t even addressing him. _Is he done with me now?_

Mike caught up, grabbing at his arm. “Sherlock, let’s just leave it mate.”

“Mike, you’re not good at this,” Sherlock said harshly. Mike dropped his arm in surprise at the verbal attack. “Just let well alone. John is not leaving with her,” Sherlock pointed at him in loud whisper. He shook his head frantically, trying to clear it. _John couldn’t possibly be leaving with her, could he?_ _He just wanted to talk to her he said. He didn’t love her. He told me so._

“Just look at your _boyfriend_. He’s heartbroken. And he’s clearly off his face. _I’m fine_ ,” Sarah yelled across the top of the car to John, rolling her eyes.

_She really was unpleasant. I mean aside from being beautiful. Straight men did love a submissive blonde, didn’t they?_ Sherlock thought to himself and he snickered at his own wit. Mike gave him a sideways glance. He obviously hadn’t said it aloud and realised he was looking crazier by the minute. This was not helping his cause. “Sure … you look _great,_ ” he said instead, sarcastically. John fired him a look of warning which pulled him up short. He couldn’t tell in his brain fuzz if it was an endearing: “not now, love” sort of look, or a more cruel: “you really are an ass” look. John didn’t usually give him the second one that often, but he was feeling quite insecure. He wasn’t successfully reading John at all right now.

“ _Sherlock_ … I hope he really loves you as much as I _think_ he does. Because if he doesn’t, he’s really broken you. He’s broken _both of us_ ,” Sarah fired back at him.

_Touché,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _He’s definitely broken us, that’s for sure. He did say he loved me, but did he mean it?_ Sherlock began to shake again, the cool air soaking into the skin of his exposed chest and mingling with his body’s renewed reactions to the extra flurry of drugs.

“Sarah just get away from the car. Just give me the damn keys and I’ll drive you home,” John said roughly.

_No … he can’t be leaving with her. He said he would sort her out and come back for me. John. No._ Sherlock thought he had spoken aloud but realised he was confusing thought and speech now and nothing was coming out.

“Fine,” he heard John say as he stepped in to the car. Agreeing to god knows what. _No._

Sherlock rushed forward to stop him, grabbing at his elbow. “John … don’t go,” he begged. “Don’t get in the car with her _please_. Not like that. Please. Stay with me.”

“Sherlock, I’ll come back. Just let me get her home safely,” John said quietly to him. “Mike – please! A little help here …” he yelled over to Mike.

_Mike? What could Mike do? And why wasn’t John giving me eye contact? Why was he avoiding talking to me properly? Was he feeling guilty that he was choosing Sarah again?_ Sherlock’s heart rate began pounding fast. He couldn’t let John leave. He may never get John back if Sarah got her claws in again.

“ _He’s_ not getting in my car,” Sarah sneered at Sherlock.

“I wouldn’t want to get in your stupid car anyway,” Sherlock retorted with anger.

“ _Shut up_ Sherlock!” John yelled at him.

Sherlock was taken aback. _He just … did he just …? Why is he treating me like this all of a sudden?_

“Just … go and wait with Mike. _Please_.” Sherlock’s heart started to ache.

_John doesn't want me. After everything he said tonight. Was that just a lie to get me off the balcony safely? He doesn’t want me at all. He’s leaving. With Sarah. He just wants to get me out of the way._

“John …” Sherlock moaned before starting to cry.

“No Sherlock,” John said firmly, shrugging Sherlock’s hand off him and placing his own hand gently on Sherlock’s chin to look him straight in the eyes.

Sherlock’s stomach did a flip and he felt his heart stop for a moment. He couldn’t breathe from that one moment of contact.

“ _Go_ ,” John said with intensity and let go of Sherlock to step into the passenger seat of the car.

Sherlock froze on the spot. _He doesn’t want me at all. He wants me to go._ When his heart restarted, and his breath returned, he sucked in a loud sob as the realisation hit him that John was sending him away. Again.

Mike grabbed him around the arms. “Come on mate,” he said gently as he pulled Sherlock away from the car, to somebody’s garden nearby. Sherlock fell to the ground, letting the tears take him completely, doubled over, unable to get his head or his heart to calm down. He was completely overwhelmed by sensations. He couldn’t believe John would do that to him. Not after everything he had said only a short while ago on the balcony. The chaos in his head suddenly taking over, he snapped, jumping to his feet to pitch forward towards the car again.

“John! Don’t go!” he screamed at the glass beside John’s head. He didn’t even look at Sarah, his eyes were glued to the side of John’s head.

“Sherlock. _Please stop_ ,” John begged him, making only very brief eye contact before looking away.

_He won’t even look at me. He’s going to go back to her again. Of course, he would. He’s ashamed of me. Look at me. Look at the state I’m in. Why would he choose me? You’re worthless, Sherlock Holmes._

John looked embarrassed or ashamed or whatever it was that meant he couldn’t even _look_ at him right now. He was not going to let John do this. He knew, _he knew_ John didn’t want to be with Sarah. He had promised!

“John. _John_. Don’t go!” Sherlock put both his hands on the glass, begging in earnest. He knew it was pathetic, but he couldn’t stop himself. He had to try one last time. He had to know if John was really going to do this to him.

John not only avoided looking back, he turned his back to Sherlock in earnest, to give Sarah his full attention and let Sherlock know he was done. Sherlock gasped and his breath stuttered, teetering between a scream of rage and more tears, he slid down the car to the curb. Mike took the opportunity to pull at Sherlock again while he was momentarily less alert and pulled him back away from the car again. He was struggling to stand upright, completely distraught and still shaking. He was in complete turmoil.

“Let me go Mike, jesus!” Sherlock struggled, frustrated. He couldn’t think straight, he couldn’t make his body work. Everything was just going wrong. _Why can’t I think straight?_

“Mate stop fighting this and just let John sort her out. They’ll be fine. He’ll talk some sense into her. You can come inside with me and we will wait for him. Okay?” Mike tried to convince him. If he could just get Sherlock away and calm things down, he had absolute faith in John’s ability to calm Sarah down and diffuse the situation.

“No, no, no. I just got him back.” He shook his head wildly, hands raking through his curls, trying to get his head to focus. He turned back to look at the car in time to see John lean over in his seat to kiss Sarah on the cheek. _“No,”_ he whispered.

How did he go from being so destroyed, to so elated, to completely ruined again? How had John done this again? He wanted to die. He just wanted to be swallowed up and die. He knew he still had the extra stash in his pocket. _Maybe he could just add all of that to his system and see what happened?_

Mike reached out and put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder to reassure him, to try to calm him down.

“Let me go!” he screamed. Sherlock had lost all sense of logic. All he could see was John kissing Sarah. John leaving with Sarah. Mike was just collateral damage at this point. In his head, he had decided that he was invincible, that if he and John were going to stand a chance, he had to make a final sacrifice – a signal to John that he was not letting him go. _Ever_. Without a second thought, he used his elbow and wedged it hard into Mike’s ribs. Mike crumpled to the ground with a moan, the air completely taken out of him by the surprise attack.

And with nothing left to lose, Sherlock ran out onto the road.

“John!” Sherlock screamed out. He stood firm in the middle of the road, holding his hand out to signal them to stop. In that moment Sherlock didn’t really know what he had hoped to achieve. He supposed he hoped Sarah would slam on the breaks, that the shock of nearly hitting him might stop her in her tracks and John could get control of the situation. She wouldn’t drive after that surely. He knew he couldn’t actually stop a moving car, despite feeling like he could with everything pumping through his veins. His impulse control was well and truly out the window. It seemed like a reasonable thing to do in that moment. And without John he didn’t really care what happened to him anyway.

Sherlock’s vision seemed to slow as he saw the car lurch towards him unexpectedly. The shock in that moment froze him to his spot. The headlights bright in his eyes, he braced his hands in front of himself protectively. He didn’t even notice Mike grabbing him and pulling him to the ground out of the way. He hit the road hard with a thud, the air coming out of him in a rush. He was having an out of body experience, he felt like he was still on the road in front of the car, watching it from a whole other perspective. He supposed it was the drugs impacting his brain function, scientifically speaking. It was fascinating. _The brain was fascinating,_ he marvelled to himself in that moment – that in a few seconds it could take in so much information and replay it slower in order to process it all.

He thought he heard John’s voice scream his name through the windscreen, despite the noise the car made as the tyres suddenly screeched and it swerved unexpectedly to the right. It hit the curb at a faster speed than it should have, making an incredibly loud sickening crunch. The sound of one of the windows shattering from the impact punctuated the moment as the car flew into the air. The elegance of a motor vehicle in full flight was something to behold. Despite the terror it also brought, there was something oddly magnificent about it, and Sherlock and Mike both watched, mouths gaping as it seemed to hover timelessly. In reality of course it was a split second. The finality of it returning down and colliding with a large tree to stop its epic journey, was startling. Sherlock flinched, his hands covering his eyes in shock. It was only seconds, but once his brain caught up with him he scrambled to his feet and ran forward to the car which had landed only a few metres ahead.

Mike was a little slower to recover. “Jesus,” he said under his breath, getting to his feet slowly in shock.

“Stay back!” he yelled to the people edging closer from the party.

There was smoke coming out of the bonnet and a sizzling sound coming from the car. As he looked in, he could see Sarah crumpled over the steering wheel, not moving. He didn’t even stop to check Sarah as he realised John was not in his seat. _No John._ He craned his neck to check the car, front and back seats. “John?!” he called.

Suddenly noticing the hole in the windscreen, Sherlock frantically looked out onto the road. He could see John’s body a few metres ahead on the bitumen, lifeless.

“John! Oh my god John! _John? John! Nonono_ ,” he started crying out as he ran towards the body. “Mike! Mike help me!” he screamed.

Mike ran to the car first as he pulled his phone out of his jacket pocket.

“It’s all right Sherlock. I’m calling an ambulance now.” His phone was already to his ear. “Don’t move him!” he shouted to Sherlock as he waited on the phone. “Jesus christ Sherlock. What were you thinking? Sarah? Sarah?!” Mike checked her neck for a pulse. “Oh no, no, Sarah.” He tried a couple of times, adjusting his angle in the hope of finding her heartbeat as he was finally connected to an operator to impart instructions.

"Oh god what have I done?!” Sherlock yelled out into the night. “John? John. _JOHN?!_ Wake up. Please wake up. John? Can you hear me? _Please John._ Wake up.”

“Sherlock. Sherlock is he okay? Is he hurt?!” Mike called out pointlessly, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t answer. As he got closer, he took in the sight of John in a heap, blood and scratches on his face. “Jesus, John!?”

Sherlock wasn’t listening to Mike at all. “Please don’t be dead. Please … oh my god. He’s not waking up! There’s … there’s so much blood. There’s blood everywhere. His head’s bleeding. And I can’t … I can’t wake him up and … blood … so much … blood … so much …” Sherlock was rambling. His hands had blood on them from John’s head and he grabbed at John, pulling him closer as he crouched behind his head.

“It’s okay Sherlock, there’s an ambulance coming. Just try to stay calm.” Mike approached a little closer, nervous about what Sherlock might do. He was still on the phone to the ambulance and feeding them information.

“Is he breathing?” Mike asked for the paramedics. Sherlock was slow to answer. “Sherlock? Sherlock!” he yelled. Sherlock looked up slowly. _“Is he breathing?”_

“Yes … yes he’s breathing. But there’s so much blood …” Sherlock answered finally, and Mike relayed the information back to them.

“You probably shouldn’t move him …” Mike began, but Sherlock ignored that, already lifting John’s head and shoulders onto his lap.

“John. John. _John. Please._ Listen to me _please_. John … John … I’m sorry … _John please_.” Sherlock was lost to the sensations and so focussed on John, he felt like he could even hear John responding, even though his eyes could see John wasn’t conscious. His voice was so clear.

_“It’s okay, Sherlock,” John said gently. “I’m here. We’re just in therapy. Open your eyes.”_

Sherlock shook his head, confused at how clear John’s voice was, but it morphed into Mike’s voice.

“It’s okay Sherlock. You’re in shock. Just breathe, it’s okay,” Mike said to him gently. “Get back everyone. Stay back. Just stay back!” Mike yelled at the crowd, who were still edging forward. For the first time Mike felt he needed to step up and be good under the pressure. He thought to himself how proud John would be if he could see him in action. John had always chastised Mike for being a follower and not a leader. He was going to prove to John he could do this. _And when John came out of this … they would have a right laugh,_ he tried to tell himself.

“The ambulance is on its way. You, James … go, keep an eye out for the ambulance. Keep the traffic off the street. Colin – over there, on the other side, mate. Block the traffic. Just everyone stay away, give them space,” he directed them all efficiently and with authority. He puffed his chest out for a brief moment. Now he had to care for Sherlock.

“John oh John … don’t leave me.” Sherlock started crying, cradling John’s limp head and shoulders on his lap, the blood all over his hands, his bare chest and his clothes. John was so pale and for a moment, Sherlock likened his relaxed state to what John was like in bed. The days when he would wake up early to watch John sleep. His face so relaxed, his limbs pliant. But he quickly reminded himself this was nothing like that. His mind was still very confused from the drugs, he was struggling to piece together reality in his fuzzy brain. He was shaking, partly from shock, partly the cold with his shirt lying open.

_“He’s not responding to me, Claire! Why isn’t he responding? What’s going on?” John said, worried. “Sherlock, I’m right here.”_

“Sherlock, I’m right here. They’re on their way, I can hear the ambulance now, it’s already coming. It’s okay,” Mike reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock looked at Mike confused.

“So much blood … so much blood … there’s … there’s blood on my hands … so much blood …” Sherlock could only keep repeating to himself. He tried to say other things to Mike but the words wouldn’t form.

“Sherlock it’s all right. It’s all right mate, just hang in there.” Mike kept his voice calm, eyes peeled for the ambulance, and to keep people away from the scene. Thankfully, no-one was trying to film it with their phones. People could be vultures, particularly once they had some alcohol in them. Something like this would be up on the socials in minutes. He hoped the scene was frightening enough that people knew it was not the time. Maybe they were all sobering up. Mike was certainly sobering up very quickly indeed.

“John, John, _please John_ … wake up,” Sherlock rasped, barely any voice left from crying and screaming. “Just come back to me,” he whispered.

_“It’s not real Sherlock. Not anymore. I’m **here**.” John grabbed his hands, trying to get him to snap out of this state. Sherlock’s hands were icy cold, and he was shaking uncontrollably._

“Right what do we have here?” an official voice said.

“I couldn’t find a pulse,” Mike started relaying, walking back towards the car and the ambulance officer, sounding very official. “That’s Sarah, the driver. She’s in the car. I couldn’t find a pulse. This is John. He’s breathing, but unconscious. He was thrown from the car. We tried not to move him. I tried to _ask_ him not to move him but he’s …”

“What happened?” one medic asked as he put on his latex gloves. The other one checked Sarah’s vitals, looking to her partner and shaking her head to confirm that Sarah was, in fact, already gone.

“There uh … was a fight. The driver … Sarah … she’d been uh … drinking,” Mike began a little nervously. It was _his_ party. This happened at _his_ party, on _his_ watch. “He stepped out,” Mike gestured to Sherlock who was oblivious to the ambulance even arriving. “She must have hit the accelerator by accident … and … and …” The gravity of the scene finally hit Mike now that he was able to hand over to someone more qualified, and he couldn’t find the words any more.

“Okay. It’s okay we’ve got this,” the paramedic said, realising Mike was starting to flounder. “You’ve done really well.”

“What’s _his_ name?” the male paramedic asked, pointing to Sherlock.

“Sherlock,” Mike answered and then stepped back out of their way.

_“Sherlock? Can you hear me?” Claire’s voice said gently, momentarily confusing Sherlock._

“Sherlock? _Sherlock?”_ the lady paramedic said, kneeling down beside him. _“_ My name’s Amy. I’m from the ambulance service. We’re going to need to look at your friend now,” she said gently.

“No, no, no! Don’t touch him. Don’t touch John! I’m not letting go!” Sherlock screamed fiercely.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be okay, Sherlock. You’re in shock. Is his name _John,_ did you say?” Amy asked carefully.

“Yes, John… _John,_ ” Sherlock nodded, his voice softening as he began crying again.

“Okay, it’s okay. This is Chris. He’s here to help too,” Amy said gently, introducing her partner.

“Hey Sherlock,” Chris said carefully, coming in closer but trying not to startle him.

“Chris is going to put a blanket around you now. And I need to get in there and assess John, all right?” Amy said cautiously. Chris laid an orange blanket over Sherlock’s shoulders carefully. He could see Sherlock was shaking uncontrollably now from the shock.

“No! No, you can’t take him!” Sherlock yelled at them, “Don’t touch him! _Don’t touch John!_ You can’t take him from me. I won’t let you touch him.” He grabbed on to John’s body tighter with one arm, swatting at their attempts to get near with the other hand.

“Sherlock mate, it’s all right. I’m here,” Mike said gently to him.

_“I’m here. We’re here with you. You need to let go now, Sherlock. We’re just here in therapy. It’s not real,” Claire said quietly to him._

“You need to let go. Let them take John, so they can help him. He’s bleeding, Sherlock. You need to let them help,” Mike tried to help coax him. “He’s on something,” he said to the paramedics. “I’m sorry, he’s not normally this aggressive … although _sometimes_ he is,” Mike couldn’t help joking out of nerves.

“Is any of this blood Sherlock’s?” Chris asked, observing the blood on his hands and chest.

“No, no. Sherlock wasn’t in the accident. He was on the road, but he wasn’t hit,” Mike explained.

“I don’t want him to go. Please don’t …” Sherlock begged them, finally making eye contact and looking frantically between them.

“It’s okay. Sherlock, I’ll bring you to the hospital,” Mike encouraged, just pleased Sherlock was finally responding to them.

“Actually, you’ll both need to stay here,” Chris said to Mike bluntly. “The police are on their way. They’ll need witnesses. They’ll need to take a statement.”

“He’s in no state. Look at him! He should probably be coming _with you_ ,” Mike argued.

“We can’t take him now. He’s a witness, as are you. He’s not injured. You’ll need to stay here with him and keep him calm until the police arrive. We’ve sent for another ambulance to collect the deceased lady, but the police will want to investigate. We need to get John to the hospital for treatment immediately. I would recommend keeping control of the traffic until the police arrive. Maybe get Sherlock off the road, though?” Amy suggested.

_“Claire, why won’t he come out of it?” John asked frantically._

_“This is what I was worried about, John. After last time. He appears to be having a PTSD flashback. Just keep talking to him. His heart rate is very fast. Keep talking to him, John.” Claire monitored his pulse._

_“Can’t you give him something?” John begged._

_“No John, I’m a neuropsychologist, we don’t give any meds, and with Sherlock’s history I wouldn’t, even if I could,” she apologised. “Just stay with him, he’ll come out of it soon enough and he’ll need you. If he gets violent or his heart rate doesn’t come down, I’ll call an ambulance.”_

“Johnjohnjohn … _John_ … no … no.” Sherlock clung to John, rubbing his hand along his chest, touching his face, wanting any contact he could get to reassure himself that John was still here. He kissed John’s hair. He grabbed John’s arm and held his hand, finding the initials on the cuff of the jumper again, to rub them between his thumb and finger, before holding John’s hand in his. John’s skin was very cold, and Sherlock was terrified John may have stopped breathing but he also couldn’t let go.

_“I’m here Sherlock. I’m okay now,” John pushed, trying to get through to Sherlock, holding his hand._

“Sherlock, it’s Amy. I’m going to take John now. We’ve got him … you need to let us … you need to let us do what we do. We’re just going to take him …” She slowly pulled John’s hand away from Sherlock to touch his wrist and check for his pulse. Sherlock had a stab of jealousy and confusion, thinking she was trying to touch the jumper as well, to hold his hand. His jumper. _Their jumper._

“Okay I’ve got him. We’ve got a weak pulse!” she yelled to Chris and suddenly things moved quickly. Chris was there with a stretcher and they were lifting John out of Sherlock’s lap.

Mike put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders to steady him and to keep him from leaping at the paramedics. The cry that left his mouth as they took John away from him was gut wrenching, more animal than human.

Mike guided Sherlock to his feet, putting his arm around his back. “Come on Sherlock. Let’s just move to the curb, out of the way. We can sit there.”

“He’s going to _die!_ I can’t … John! John! _John! Please!”_ he screamed. He didn’t have the strength to actually wrestle out of Mike’s grip anymore, but Mike could feel Sherlock’s muscles tensing and vibrating from the stress. He let Mike guide him without protest and he slumped to the curb where Mike put him and sobbed into his hands.

_“Sherlock. Sherlock. It’s okay now. I’m okay. Listen to my voice. Open your eyes. I’m okay. I’m right here,” John implored._

Finally, Sherlock’s eyes opened, his breathing was rapid, he was sweating, and his pulse was going a million miles an hour. He took in the room, confused. John was there. He was okay. He was right there in front of him, crouched in front of Sherlock, breathing and alive. And looking terrified. Sherlock’s brain was stuttering back online and taking in the reality of the situation.

“John?” he asked, uncertain and confused, and a little scared.

“Sherlock, it’s okay, I’m right here. _I’m okay._ ” John put his hand on Sherlock’s cheek finally and Sherlock flinched from the contact, trying to figure out what was going on.

“You’re here?” He was confused, blinking wildly.

“Yes. And I’m fine,” he reassured Sherlock with an intense look. He couldn’t smile. What he had just witnessed was terrifying. He was worried about Sherlock.

“They took you away,” he gasped, eyes wild.

“I'm _fine_. We’re okay now. Look at me and just breathe Sherlock,” John said firmly.

“They took you away from me,” he said sadly.

“Sherlock, that was a memory. It was years ago. We’re fine,” John said, sighing with relief. “You scared me. You weren’t coming back to us.”

“You gave us both a bit of a fright there, Sherlock,” Claire said. Sherlock startled at the extra voice and looked past John to see Claire at her desk, phone in hand. “I was about to call an ambulance actually, but John was not giving up. He was right here beside you the whole time. You’re very good at this John,” she said with a gentle smile.

“You found your way back to me,” John let out, looking back to Sherlock with a sigh.

“No. You found _me_. You _found_ me John,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, I did. I _did_ find you. And we’re okay now,” he smiled gently.

“I’m so sorry. I’m _so sorry_. It was all my fault,” Sherlock said sadly.

“Sherlock we’re not doing this to place any blame,” Claire interjected.

“But I _do_ feel guilty. I feel like being in that state … the drugs … luring John into that situation … I forced a chain of events which resulted in the death of somebody. I feel guilty _every day_. I will always carry that guilt,” he lamented. John moved back to the couch and sat beside Sherlock, so he was nice and close, placing his arm around Sherlock’s back protectively.

“Sherlock, I don’t blame you for that. Sarah made the choice to get behind that wheel. She made the wrong choice,” John reassured him.

“But she was _heartbroken_ , John. She wasn’t thinking straight,” Sherlock lamented.

“So were you Sherlock. _So were you._ You wouldn’t have done what you did without my part in it. I let her drive because I wanted to keep the peace, because I felt guilty. I was too weak. You were begging me to stay and I knew the state you were in. I left you. I turned my back on you, because I felt so guilty for what we had done to her.” John shook his head.

“We have been lucky enough to find each other again. And we’re repairing the damage. And we owe it to Sarah. Before she died …” John swallowed hard. “Before she died she asked me to love you _properly_. To look after you. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do. That’s what _we’re_ going to do. Love one another. So that it’s not all been in vain. So all this pain has been worth something at least,” John finished, squeezing Sherlock closer.

“John, I think those are very wise words,” Claire commended him.

“It must have been so hard for you. I never realised how hard that was … for _you,_ ” John said quietly.

“It was the worst day of … my life. Of anything I’ve ever lived through,” Sherlock admitted, shaking his head, still trying to come back to the room.

“To be fair, I’ve had better days too,” John joked, laughing suddenly.

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that crept onto his face. The two of them had such a twisted sense of humour at the worst possible moments. He loved John for that, and he couldn’t stop himself from joining in, giggling together. He could see Claire’s eyebrow quirk at it and make a note with her pen. _God knows what she thought of them after this session_ , Sherlock thought to himself.

John couldn’t help the relief he felt. He pulled Sherlock over to him and hugged him, hard.

“We’re going to be okay, Sherlock,” John nodded, and Sherlock closed his eyes and gripped on tight.

_[“John oh John … don’t leave me.” Sherlock started crying, cradling John’s limp head and shoulders on his lap](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1LXl-ornGayHQ_MlxQIVFYPSLO1U7x_Gz/view?usp=sharing) (Artwork by Anke Eissmann @Khorazir)_


	14. Apartment Bound

_Blog – Catching Up_

_It’s been a while since I’ve written a blog. We’ve had a lot going on. Therapy has been very productive, and my memory is slowly returning in patches. The hypnosis has allowed me to relive some significant moments from my past which had been part of the cause of the memory blockages. It has helped me so much to remember some of the key moments in our relationship and what my feelings were about it all back then. It’s helped me to understand Sherlock more too. How he can be so confident of our love but so terrified at the same time. With good reason. I caused him a lot of heartache._

_Our last session was very intense. Sherlock clung tightly to me after and didn’t let go until we got safely home. He’s been in bed the last few days, unwilling to come out of the room. I don’t think he’s depressed, but he’s certainly spending some time in his mind palace, processing everything. He’s going through a very rough patch this week. I have resisted calling Mycroft yet. He insists he’s okay but when I try to give him space he has a panic attack. I’m not able to leave his side for very long – if at all, when he’s conscious. I tried to go back to my own room, but Sherlock demanded I sleep in there with him. He doesn’t want me to leave. He clings to me so much at night and sometimes I can feel him shaking. But he doesn’t want to talk about it. He’s barely said two words to me the last few days aside from: “don’t leave.”_

_I hadn’t realised how much of a battle he had been through – what an impact the accident had on him. And what cost there would be to him in reliving it. It was important for me to go through it, but I’m not sure now if letting him do it was a good decision or not._

_He is struggling and I don’t know how to help him other than just being here. He says that’s enough. But I genuinely worry that maybe it was too much for him. And I hope that he can overcome it. He wouldn’t eat for the first day. I managed to get some cups of tea into him on the second day. Tonight, I’m going to aim for some soup, see if I can get some food in his stomach. It can’t be helping that he hasn’t got any fuel for his body. I’m thankful that this came after exams had finished. I don’t think we could have survived another disruption to our studies._

_He’s sleeping a lot. I’ve been going a bit stir crazy, so when he sleeps during the day I come out and clean the apartment or last night I had dinner with Mrs H since Sherlock wouldn’t eat anyway. She had to bring it up here though – he wouldn’t have been able to cope with me even going downstairs. I need to get out of the apartment though, even just for a walk. Just to get away. The guilt is eating me alive – watching him suffer like this. I know I have to endure this. This is my doing. But I really want Sherlock to come back to me. For us to finally move forward from this._

_In fact, I had better stop writing and head back in before he wakes up and I’m not there …_

* * *

John pushed the door gently open with the tray table – some soup steaming in a bowl, some dry toast on a plate and a cup of tea in Sherlock’s favourite mug. Something small and simple and hopefully enough to get nutrients in his system. He entered tentatively, not wanting to wake Sherlock yet – he was curled up in a foetal position, his back to John. He seemed so frail, all the confidence gone from his frame. Even from behind, John could see it.

“John?” he asked with sleepy urgency, worried that John might be leaving the room, not entering it. He turned his head to look over his shoulder and take John in at the doorway.

“I’m here Sherlock, I’m here. I’ve just brought you some dinner,” John said softly.

“Ugh … I don’t want to eat,” he said stubbornly, as he turned back and dropped his head heavily to the pillow in a sulk.

“I know you don’t want to eat but I think it’s probably good for you. It’s not helping that you won’t eat.” John rolled his eyes at himself, at how much he was sounding like his mother, and he didn’t like it. “It’s just soup. It’s light. Please try,” he begged.

Sherlock moaned with irritation, not moving. John leaned over and placed the tray at the end of the bed near Sherlock and then sat gently on his edge of the bed, so as not to disturb the tray.

“Sherlock I’m really worried about you. It’s been a few days now,” he prompted.

Sherlock lifted his head to inspect the tray suspiciously, the smell of food turning his stomach a little but then giving him a sudden urge to eat, which annoyed him.

“Look, I know it was a really tough session for you, but I feel like … like if you can’t snap out of this I’m going to have to call your brother or send for a doctor to come and see you, because you’re starting to worry me,” John admitted carefully.

“John I’m _fine_ ,” Sherlock said, annoyed.

“Sherlock! It’s been _three days_. Not hours. _DAYS!”_ John snapped, unable to contain his worry any more. “It’s time. It’s time to sit up and eat some food. You’re scaring me.”

Sherlock let out a resigned and gentle sigh. He was clearly holding back the stubborn overly dramatic reaction he would _like_ to give. But even in his state, he could hear that John was not dealing with this and he needed to do his part to mend it. He sat up in the bed. His hair was a complete, adorable mess. His shirt hung off his bony shoulders and even though it had only been a few days, John could see how malnourished Sherlock looked. His skin was pale, a little grey even.

“You’re right. I’m sorry, you’re right,” he said, leaning closer to John and putting his hand on John’s thigh to calm him down. “What have you got for me then?”

John finally released a half smile and let out a sigh of gratitude, his back straightening with pride. “So, it’s just that tomato soup you like and some toast. I’ve left it dry, but I can get the butter if you want it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No, no. It’s fine. It’s … good,” and he pulled the tray closer to rest over his legs.

“Just eat slowly – your stomach won’t handle an onslaught,” John teased.

“Yes, doctor.” Sherlock smirked as he took in the first sip of soup. The saltiness leapt around on his tastebuds and his body jolted awake at the relief of finally being let out of its fasting dungeon. Sherlock tried not to show any reaction on the outside. He was not giving John the satisfaction of being right, although he suspected John knew. He was always right about the eating.

“Not a doctor yet,” John blushed, but Sherlock could see out of the corner of his eyes, that John’s shoulders relaxed in relief.

They sat in silence together as Sherlock finally took in the soup, occasionally letting out a satisfied groan at finally having some sustenance. He even took some bites of the toast. John hadn’t planned to talk, but Sherlock hadn’t spoken to him in days and he couldn’t contain himself.

“Sherlock …” he began gently, Sherlock could hear he was nervous. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for this. Claire thought that you shouldn’t come – to that session. I should have listened. I should have been more firm with you about staying home.” He gave Sherlock a guilty look of apology.

“John, I’ll be okay.” Sherlock put down his spoon. “It just … it brought everything back out of … a very dark place that I hadn’t been to in a while,” Sherlock said, and John could hear the effort it took for him to admit it.

“Still, you probably didn’t need to go through that,” John confessed. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” Sherlock pushed the tray away to the end of the bed and turned to face John cross legged and give the conversation his attention finally. “It was important for you, John. And I’m glad I was there for that. I’m just sorry it ended up being about me.” Sherlock was embarrassed, John realised.

“Oh no, Sherlock. No. I … it was important for me, but I think I needed to see what it did to _you_. What _I_ did to you. I needed to know that,” John said, reaching over to touch Sherlock’s leg. “I had no idea. The accident for me had always been something that happened … to _me_ … that caused this mess in my head. It never even occurred to me that you went through something huge that night as well.”

“Yes, well. Like you said, it was the past. It’s done with now,” Sherlock said flippantly, avoiding eye contact.

“ _Is_ it done with?” John checked.

“Yes. Of course. We’ve dealt with it. You know what happened.” Sherlock was defiant.

“Sherlock,” John scolded him, “you’ve been in bed for three days. You haven’t spoken to me for three days! You haven’t eaten. Would we call that _done_?” Sherlock could hear that John was a bit angry at that. He didn’t know what to say, so he reached over and grabbed a piece of toast to nibble on.

“I’m seeing Claire in the morning,” John said defiantly. “I’m going to go on my own this time.” Sherlock swallowed loudly, his head snapping to John’s face to gauge what was happening.

“No John! I don’t want you to go.” Sherlock’s voice was suddenly not steady, and John’s heart ached to hear how unstable he still was. He was not ready to let John out of his sight yet. He felt bad for being angry at him, so he softened.

“I’ll only be gone a couple of hours and Mrs H will come up and sit with you,” he reassured.

“You don’t want me to come?” Sherlock was hurt.

“Sherlock, I think after last time … I think that’s best, don’t you? I don’t even understand why you’re … why you’re doing this.” John stood up and started pacing nervously. “And honestly, I need to get out of this apartment. I can’t sit here and watch you do this to yourself, not talking to me. I feel like I’m being kept hostage.” John knew it was cruel to say it, but he felt like he was being punished and he didn’t like it.

“John, no. That’s not it at all. I just needed to … I needed to go into my mind palace,” Sherlock tried to explain. He could see it wasn’t helping and that he may have pushed John over the edge the last few days. He shuffled over to sit on the edge of the bed. John stopped pacing and let out a resigned sigh to come and sit beside him on the bed edge. Sherlock grabbed his hand fiercely.

“John, in the session, after I listened to you recounting everything … I don’t know what happened, but one minute I was listening and suddenly I was there. I was in it too, reliving it in my head. It was so vivid! Is that what it feels like for you in hypnosis?”

John nodded but didn’t speak.

“It was _so real._ I understand now how it infuriated you so much in the beginning. I could feel _everything_. Even the drugs. I felt …”

“Sick?” John prompted.

“No … _amazing_. It felt amazing,” he admitted, looking to John guiltily for his reaction. John was taken aback by the confession. “I knew I was a mess, but I felt … the blood in my veins was on fire. I felt _invincible_ and I just … it scared me because coming out of it, afterwards … it made me crave it all over again. That feeling …” Sherlock couldn’t look John in the eyes now. He stared down at their intertwined fingers, hoping that admitting to this would bring them closer and not push John further away. “I’ve been trying to stay in my mind palace until my body overcomes that craving. I know how to do that. I’ve done it before.”

“Sherlock that’s crazy, you can’t just _mind palace_ your way out of drug addiction,” John huffed. 

“ _I_ can. But it’s taking longer than usual. I’m struggling because … I just keep seeing you. On the ground … the blood. And I … it was _so real_ John. It was so real. And I just need time to …” Sherlock’s voice hitched, and John could see how hard this was for him to handle on his own. He felt selfish all of a sudden, demanding to have time alone outside the apartment, when Sherlock was fighting an internal battle.

“Sherlock. I’m fine. I’m here with you and _I’m fine._ ” John grabbed at him and forced a hug on him. Sherlock was tense at first but then grabbed on to John fiercely as if he might evaporate at any moment.

“Sherlock, I understand all of that. But I _need_ you. We need each other. You shouldn’t be trying to do that alone.” John came out of the hug and their eyes met. Sherlock could see John was genuinely worried. “You know, maybe you’re stuck in that moment,” John suggested gently. Sherlock tensed a little bit again. “Maybe moving past that moment will help. That’s what Claire gets us to do, right? It’s how you got me to let go of _my_ barriers. Do you think you could … would you tell me what happened next? After they took me away?” John was very hesitant to ask but he couldn’t think of anything else to try.

Sherlock was even more unsure, but he hadn’t thought to try that yet either, so it was worth a go. He let out a big sigh and nodded.

“After the ambulance took you?” he asked, nervously. John nodded encouragingly and grabbed on to his hand again in support.

“Time sort of lost any meaning. I sat there with Mike, for what felt like an eternity, with that bloody blanket on my shoulders,” he huffed in a frustrated laugh. “I still don’t know why they do that.”

“People get cold when they go into shock,” John interjected.

“Oh. They do? Well anyway, I sat there … trying not to think about you and what might be happening with you. Mike was good – great even. He sent everyone home from the party. And he sat with me on the curb until the police got there. I wasn’t really listening, but he talked a lot, reassured me. Told me funny stories about how you were before I knew you, before we got together. How much better we were together, and how you were going to be fine.”

John smiled. He was pleased Mike looked after Sherlock. He wondered to himself what Mike was doing in his life now, what things might be like for him. Why he hadn’t stayed in touch …

“When the police arrived, I was still high. Probably higher than I was when you found me, if I’m honest. There was quite a cocktail in my system.”

“Oh _Sherlock_ ,” John sighed.

“And I had more in my pocket,” he admitted.

“I thought you didn’t have much left? At least you told _me_ that, on the balcony.” John shook his head in realisation.

“I lied. There was quite a bit still left. In my back pocket. Enough to warrant charges anyway. I had made plans … before you found me,” He said it plainly, and it made John’s skin prickle to hear it said so simply. _He had plans._

“So, they took you in? The police?” John moved him forward, not wanting to contemplate what Sherlock was implying.

“They took me in,” Sherlock confirmed with a nod. He was obviously nervous to keep going, rubbing his free hand up and down Johns arm where their hands were joined in a mindless gesture. “Mike tried really hard to stop them, to get them to take me to hospital first but they took me straight to a lockup. Best way to detox is when you can’t get access,” he huffed to himself.

John didn’t dare interrupt now, just letting Sherlock get everything out. His eyes watched Sherlock closely, but Sherlock was transfixed on their arms, eyes glazed over as his mind recalled the details.

“They charged me with possession – not my first time – which meant I was already in a spot of trouble. They were trying to pin the accident on me as well – contributory negligence or something. Pretty sure I had rambled incessantly about it being my fault, announcing that I killed Sarah to anyone who would listen at the station.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at himself.

“But you didn’t kill her, Sherlock,” John interrupted.

“I don’t know, I didn’t really take it all in. I was off my face, John. And because I was deliberate in my behaviour – stepping out in front of the car – I was at least partly to blame I guess,” he added.

John let out an angry sigh, so annoyed that he had not been there to protect Sherlock.

“Luckily Mycroft arrived in time and intervened. He collected me. But … I was like a wild animal, still coming off the drugs. I wanted to go to the hospital to see you and he wouldn’t take me. I didn’t know if you were alive or dead. He wouldn’t talk to me about it. He just told me it was time to forget about you – to focus on my own health. I refused, naturally.”

“Naturally,” John couldn’t help interjecting. He knew how stubborn Sherlock was.

“I even threw myself out of his moving car to make the point,” Sherlock laughed.

“Sherlock!” John was shocked.

“I know. It wasn’t a logical decision, John. I broke my wrist and everything.” Sherlock held out his hand to show John the scar.

John ran his fingers over it lovingly. “Sherlock …”

“Well … it made the point though. He stopped the car. And listened. He had been coming around to you … to us. He was ready to admit he had been wrong.”

“He was very helpful – when I needed to find you. Supportive even. He does love you, Sherlock. In his way.”

Sherlock ignored this. “But when the accident happened … when he saw the state I had gotten into over you … and what I had done … he was furious. He wouldn’t let me see you. It was straight to rehab. It was not up for discussion this time.”

“Probably the best decision though,” John sided with Mycroft, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“There was a court case over it all – with Sarah’s family – while I was in rehab, so I didn’t get to be there. They agreed to leave me in rehab for an extended period and I did some community service once I was out. Mycroft paid a good sum to Sarah’s family in compensation, to make the whole thing go away. It never even made the papers. I’m not proud of that.”

“Sherlock, your brother did what he thought was best for you. Sending you to jail would have done nothing to solve the situation. Let’s not forget Sarah was drunk. She had fault in the accident,” John interjected but Sherlock wouldn’t listen. He was in his own head now, relaying the story.

“Your family got involved in the court proceedings as well, I believe, demanding that they add a restraining order into things to protect you. How ridiculous is that? They wanted you to have nothing to do with me anymore, either way.”

“That’s why you kept asking me to stay away? Why you were so worried?” John checked.

“Among other things, yes. Mycroft already got the order dissolved but I didn't know. Mary clearly didn’t either. He only told me recently. After I proved I would not come after you or make a fuss. He set it up. I’m not even sure your parents knew. They weren’t happy to see me in the Dean’s office.”

John was furious. His parents had actively tried to separate them? Not just taking over his own life but interfering with Sherlock’s as well.

“I had nothing else to live for at that point. I thought you were dead, John. Mycroft decided to keep information from me because I was not coping. I had no way of knowing where you were, or what had happened. I stayed in rehab for months. Mycroft was the only one who came to see me. He wouldn’t even let my parents come. He controlled everything. I think he was protecting me, but it was suffocating.” Sherlock dropped his head into his free hand, remembering how frustrating that time had been. How much he had been driven crazy not knowing what had happened to John.

John’s heart was breaking for Sherlock.

“Eventually, Mycroft was willing to talk to me, once things had settled down, but it was months later. He had been busy trying to find you, to make amends. He turned the country upside down trying to locate you. And then suddenly he didn’t want to talk to me about it. He just told me it was time to let you go. At first, I thought you had actually died, and he didn’t want to tell me. Then he finally admitted you were alive. He told me you had lost your memory, that you did not know who anyone was. And I should just … move on. And honestly, by then, I had run out of fight John. I had. It was easier to let it go. I’m sorry.” Sherlock sounded so sad. So defeated.

“Sherlock, it’s okay. What else could you do … but let go?” John reassured him, squeezing his hand again.

“But I never did, John. Not really. Those five years …” he started and then lost his train of thought, lost the words to explain how five years passing like that had felt to him.

“It’s a pretty long time,” John prompted.

“Yes. Yes, it was. Pretty long …” Sherlock really couldn’t explain it.

“Sherlock, I wish I could have …”

“You didn’t even know who I _was_ , John. Not once they were done with you. What could you have done?” Sherlock said and the reality of that hit John. He had been so focussed on his memory recovery, he forgot that he literally didn’t know who Sherlock was. For such a long time.

“It’s amazing, you know, when you’ve got amnesia … you don’t really think about it,” John said sadly.

“John …” Sherlock didn’t know what to say.

“No. I mean I didn’t even _know_ I was missing you. So, for me, piecing everything back together … it’s almost like … well I’m remembering everything slowly but now we’re together, it’s like nothing changed. No time passed for me. A large part of that five years had been such a blur of confusion that it feels completely normal to just be here with you again as we always should have been. But I know for you, there’s a big gap in your timeline that I wasn’t there for. That you had to live through. But I’m here now, Sherlock. I’m _here_ now. There’s no way I’m going anywhere. You’re stuck with me now,” John said, putting his hand on Sherlock’s face to reassure him.

“I’m perfectly okay with that,” Sherlock said with a smile.

“We have come out of a very traumatic event. And you are clean, Sherlock. You’re _clean_. And you’re okay. And I’m getting better, and _I’m_ okay. I’m remembering more and more things.”

Sherlock turned towards him on the bed and grabbed both his hands. “John. I had lulled myself into a sense of normal – that I was doing okay with my life the way it was. I didn’t realise how bad it was, not until you came to the university. I never expected to see you again. I had accepted that. I loved you every day. And when I wasn’t allowed to see you any more, I love the _memory_ of you every day. And I mourned it. I thought I would never have that again. And then, just like that, you came back into my life. You and your stubborn ways. You wouldn’t take no for an answer. You wouldn’t let me ignore you or push you away. And I got to love you even more, because you … you made me love you all over again in a _new_ way for new reasons …” Sherlock’s eyes teared up. John’s heart swelled at this man in front of him, who loved him so much, for so many years.

“Sherlock, we might be looking back in order to heal, but we can’t _change_ anything that happened. We were the victims of a chain of horrible events and circumstances. And we’ve still ended up together. But I feel whole because I have you. I’m remembering more of my past. I know that I loved you then and that I love you now. We get our fresh start. We both _wanted_ a fresh start and we searched for that _separately_ , but it’s even better now because we have ended up with our fresh start _together_. And I couldn’t be happier, honestly. I’m just sorry it took me so long to tell you just how much I always loved you, Sherlock. Back then, _and_ now.”

John had been resisting being physical with Sherlock, particularly in his fragile state, but he couldn’t help leaning in and kissing him. All the tension in Sherlock’s body relaxed and he melted into the kiss grabbing John’s back to pull him closer with so much force it nearly knocked the air out of him. For three days they had barely existed in this space together. Sherlock had clung to John like a frightened animal, but none of the contact had been romantic. It had been desperate and mindless. To John it had felt empty. Finally, connecting like this felt so incredible. John had almost forgotten how amazing it felt to place his lips to Sherlock’s and be joined like this. There was something always electric between them when they did this. The surge of his pulse, the taste of Sherlock always made him light up. It was like an instinct he had no control over, a basic human instinct, like breathing. And Sherlock was the one thing that kept his heart beating. When John finally pulled away, Sherlock still had his eyes shut, taking in the sensations and letting out a long sigh.

“You know what?” He finally said, opening his eyes and looking into John’s hopeful expression. “I’ve just thought of a much better way to distract myself from the cravings.”

“Oh yeah?” John asked, noticing the twinkle in Sherlock’s eye all of a sudden.

“Come to bed and I’ll show you.” And he peppered it with a cheeky wink.

John’s heart skipped a beat. “I thought you’d never ask,” he smiled. Sherlock was back.


	15. The Clinic

John struggled to leave Sherlock at home. He imagined it must be how parents felt as they left their children with a baby-sitter for the first time or dropped them at school. Sherlock had even cried a little when he realised that John was really going to leave him behind. Luckily Mrs Hudson was having none of that and even managed to get him out of the bed and onto the couch, as a small step forward. John was deep in thought as he arrived at the office for his appointment, walking through the doors without paying any attention to his surrounds.

As he passed through the glass doors he was caught off guard by a sudden movement to his right, out of the corner of his eye. It gave him a little jolt, forcing him to turn his head in fright. Unexpectedly, Mycroft was there, standing up from the waiting room couch, dressed in the usual smart navy three-piece suit. He looked suitably put out, pursing his lips awkwardly as he began the conversation.

“John.” He nodded formally in acknowledgment.

“Mycroft? How did you …? How did you know I’d be here?” John was genuinely surprised, although he probably shouldn’t have been. This was part of Mycroft’s special skill set. John could never get comfortable with it.

“Claire has been keeping me updated. She told me how things went, and I was worried about Sherlock – about both of you,” he said a little guiltily. “How is he?” John had never seen him look this concerned before. He was clearly uncomfortable displaying it.

“He’s fine,” John said quickly.

“But he’s not here today …” Mycroft began. Both the Holmes brothers were way too observant and good at their deductions. John did not want to give him time to figure out that he had not been keeping up his end of the deal. He had been actively ignoring his duty to inform Mycroft of Sherlock’s current state.

“No, we thought maybe a break would be good for him. He’s just resting at home. I’m looking after him, Mycroft. Mrs Hudson is with him now while I’m out.” John realised how bad it sounded. Mycroft tilted his head to the side, thinking.

“Right. But he’s all right, isn’t he?” Mycroft checked. “He’s not answering my calls.”

“Yes, I promise you. I said I’d keep you posted, and I meant it. He’s … he’s fine.” John was nervous and kicking himself for not talking to Mycroft sooner. How did he think Mycroft wouldn’t find out?

“Claire said that he …” Mycroft was not letting it go. Of course, he wouldn’t. This was his brother.

“Yes okay, Mycroft, you’re right. You win. The last session was rough, and he took it badly. Pretty badly. But we’re okay, Mycroft. He’s _okay_ ,” John pushed again, his voice rising slightly in frustration. “Honestly, he just needs a few days to process things, but it’s nothing to worry about.” John wasn’t sure if he was reassuring Mycroft or himself now.

Mycroft didn’t push further. They stood awkwardly, the space between them feeling a little icy. Anthea was actively avoiding eye contact, but John could tell she was taking in every word.

Finally, Mycroft spoke: “And you’re …? Okay?” he asked it as if it pained him to pass those syllables over his lips.

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or embarrassed that you’re checking up on me like this, if I’m honest,” John blushed.

“I have a vested interest to know that my brother … _and_ the man he loves, are both okay,” he said plainly.

“Well, thank you Mycroft. That’s actually lovely.” John was surprised, his brow knitting in confusion. “We are both doing fine. Really.”

Mycroft sighed. John wasn’t sure whether to speak or wait for him. Mycroft wasn’t someone you interrupted without good reason. He couldn’t tell whether his answers were satisfactory or irritating to him.

“I’m sorry, were you hoping to see him? You could have just come to the flat, or called,” John finally asked.

“Ah no, actually. I mean, of course I would like to see him. But I actually had something … for you,” he admitted. “Something … sensitive.”

“Oh? Really?” John was genuinely shocked. “For me?”

“Yes, John.” Mycroft smirked slightly and John could see he was enjoying surprising him.

“When I gathered information for Claire – in case you decided to go ahead with the sessions – I had one of my people go to the clinic where you had been treated. You’ll be happy to know that it is no longer running. We closed it down. It’s now being used as a drug rehabilitation clinic thanks to the Holmes Foundation.” Mycroft was smug but something else – there was a definite hint of anger in his tone.

John scoffed. “Mycroft what is it that you do, again?”

“I’m just a lawyer, John … and of course the chairman of the board for the Holmes Foundation,” he said calmly, with an air of tedium that only came from being raised around money. Lots of money. John was never able to get used to that.

“Of course. Really though? That’s _all_ you do?” John checked, ribbing him slightly with the comment. Mycroft was always so secretive.

“I think it’s best we don’t worry about that, John. In any case uh …” Mycroft deflected quickly, “… when we dissolved the clinic, my people were able to locate your files and some of your belongings. I thought you’d be interested to read more about what happened to you in there. Hard evidence. You want to become a doctor. I figured you’d like to see hard evidence.” Mycroft bent down to open his leather brief case which was resting on the floor and pulled out a thick file full of paperwork, and a small red journal with an elastic binding on it.

“Wow, Mycroft. I don’t know … I don’t know what to say.” John was stunned, his heart rate starting to pick up at the prospect of seeing this information finally. It was an unexpected surprise. It was right there, about to be handed to him.

“They still had some of your things as well. I’m not sure why they weren’t sent home with you. It seems that your parents didn’t allow you to have your computer while you were in treatment. They kept you isolated, so you had been using a paper journal to write things down. I thought you’d like to have that too. Anyway, I wanted to give it to you … in person. I thought it might help,” Mycroft suddenly seemed uncomfortable as he finally handed them over.

John took the folder and the journal, the weight of them burning into his hands. “You’ve really come through for us, Mycroft. For me.” John gave an awkward nod of approval.

“I’m only sorry I couldn’t do … more,” Mycroft said softly and it surprised John. He had never seen that side of Mycroft.

“It seems like plenty to me. Thank you, really.” John gave him a genuine smile. And like that Mycroft was back to his usual guarded self.

“Oh, it’s nothing John. No need to make a fuss.” He cleared his throat and shuffled his foot on the floor uncomfortably. John felt a surge of appreciation for this man, who had always been so controlled, so authoritative with them and was now a little bit lost in the emotion of the moment.

“Anyway, there it is. That’s why I was here. I don’t want to keep you. Give my best to Sherlock? Let me know if I can do anything else, or if he needs anything at all?” Mycroft grabbed his brief case from the floor.

“Absolutely,” John said genuinely, reaching his hand out to shake and Mycroft took it with a formal nod, business-like again.

Claire’s door opened, ready for John.

“Ah Mycroft. What a lovely surprise,” Claire said. The smile on her face wasn’t broad like one would be with friends. It was professional yet friendly. John wondered briefly if Mycroft had any people in his life he called friends. He would have to make a point of finding that out in the future.

“Claire. Good to see you. Sorry, not staying. I was just catching John before his session,” he said with a formal, slightly forced smile. “Ladies. John,” he directed with a nod at each. And then he left.

John stood holding the files and the journal, his head spinning.

* * *

Today, John’s corridor was white – bright white. So bright he had to squint and shield his eyes at the brightness of it. The walls were empty, the floor was a gloss surface that made the fluorescent lights above reflect off it even more. The glare hurt his eyes and he squinted against it, walking tentatively forward, not sure where to place his feet. As he moved forward, closer to the end of the tunnel, the light became brighter. He closed his eyes fully, the pain in his head too much.

“Your mum is coming by later,” a familiar voice said, and he opened his eyes to see a woman – a blonde woman – standing at the window, looking out, away from him. His brain tried to process who this was. He knew her voice. Her hair. A name floated into mind …

_Mary? Or was it Sarah?_

… but vanished as quickly as it had appeared. His eyes began to frantically take in his surrounds, trying to figure out where he was. The room was small.

_Maybe a hospital room?_

White walls, no decoration, and a single bed with very bland coverings. From where he was sitting, he could see there were a couple of photos on the bedside table, in small humble frames. One of a man with a family …

_Was that me? With my parents?_

… and another photo of him again and a blonde woman … maybe this woman standing in the room with him now? Her face was not visible in the photo, only her hair. She was laughing and leaning her forehead against the man’s shoulder. The man was laughing too. They looked happy.

_Perhaps this was me with this woman? Perhaps we were together?_

On the bed was a crocheted blanket, quite obviously homemade and one of the only things in the room that didn’t look clinical and impersonal. There was one bunch of simple elegant flowers beside the photo frames and a card, not that he could read the card from where he was, across the room. Nothing seemed familiar. His mind seemed completely blank. The room was quiet, so very still. Almost unsettlingly so. The window at least had a nice outlook, the view filled with a large tree of thick green foliage. He went to turn his head and realised his neck didn’t move. He went to speak to the woman by the window and realised no words would come out. Glancing down briefly with his eyes, he could see he was in pyjamas with slippers on his feet, and he was … in a wheelchair. His eyes darted up to … _Mary …_ again but she wasn’t looking. He was trapped, unable to speak or move. Just listening.

“I just came by before I head off to work. You’re looking good today, John. The therapist said you’re doing really well. Your speech might not be there yet, or your movement. But they seem to think that will improve – as they work with you. I’m so pleased.” She turned and smiled and walked over to him, kneeling in front of his chair.

“Are you okay, John? It’s me. It’s Mary. Remember?” she coaxed.

He felt confused. He recognised this person. At least he thought he might, but there was a part of him trying to figure out who she was. She was very beautiful. Her light and curly hair framing her smiling face. Her blue eyes sparkled at him, lovingly.

_Blue eyes. I know someone with blue eyes. And curls …_

He felt like smiling as he watched her smile at him, but it didn’t cross his face. His muscles were not co-operating. And his mind wouldn’t focus on any thought for very long. He was not able to grasp any thoughts that were coming to him.

“You will make it out of this and I’m right here with you. Okay? I’m right here,” she sighed to herself.

_She’s like a ray of sunshine. And she seems to care about me._

“Anyway John, I need to be off. I’ll come again tomorrow.” She put her hand on his in reassurance and stood, straightening out her clothes as she moved to grab her handbag. “I’ll let the nurse know I’m going so she can come and get you back into bed for some rest.” And with that she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek and was gone.

_Don’t go. Where am I?_

He sat, fixed in place. Muscles failing him. Brain failing him. He felt cold but he could do nothing to stop the feeling as he sat still in his wheelchair. The sunlight from outside gradually crept across the floor towards the bed but missed him completely. He wished the sun would come closer to warm his legs, just a little closer …

He sat staring at the sun on the ground for he didn’t know how long, until there was a knock behind him and a man walked into the room, dressed in a proper three-piece suit, looking very official.

“John?” The man entered the room. “Can you hear me? I’ve come to check on you. To see how you are.”

_I don’t know who you are?_

“It’s Mycroft, John,” he replied as if he had heard John. For a brief moment he was excited that maybe this man could hear him, but of course that wasn’t true. His ears already told him there was no sound coming out of his mouth.

_Mycroft? Unusual name. Am I John? They keep calling me John._

The man moved through the room, taking in the picture frame, the flowers, lifting the card to inspect it. He pressed on the bed, checking the mattress and ran his finger to check for dust on the window sill, looking up at the fluorescent bulbs pulsating above, before placing his eyes firmly on John. The look was an indescribable mix of guilt and anger. He didn’t even try to disguise it. His nose scrunched in a sort of angry sneer momentarily. Was this man angry at him or at the situation? He couldn’t tell.

“John, I’m so sorry that it took me so long to find you. At first, I waited, but then Sherlock begged me until I had no choice. I searched and searched. I tried my hardest, used all my resources.”

_Sherlock? Who is he talking about?_

“I don’t know if you can hear me or understand me or … the hospital staff seem to think that you’re unable to respond. Since the treatment. But I believe that you can hear me, understand me. So, I’m going to talk and … there’s things I need to say.” He pulled over a chair and sat opposite John.

“I know I wasn’t … in the beginning … I wasn’t very supportive. He’s my baby brother and … well he was so in love with you, John. I couldn’t … I couldn’t relax. Because he had a history, John. Do you understand? He had a history of not being able to cope with emotions. And when he can’t cope with emotions, he uses drugs. To clear his mind, to cut the emotions off, to think about his work more clearly. And … for the first time, when he was with you I … I saw that he … I saw that he wasn’t afraid to _feel_.”

_Love? He? There’s a man that loves me?_

“You made him _want_ to feel. Which scared me even more because I knew that if anything were ever to happen … if it were to end, he would not know how to process that much emotion. And he didn’t … John. When you left him. When you chose Sarah. He didn't cope. I know that’s partly my fault. I should not have intervened. But after you left, he went on a very large binge of drug use that escalated until that night, when he called you. I thought I had stopped it, but I had not. And he wouldn’t listen to me. He only wanted you. He trusted you. Despite everything.”

_Sarah? Who’s Sarah? What about Mary? I don’t understand what you are talking about. There are too many names._

“I know I should have come to you, I should have told you earlier what was going on. I’m sure Sherlock told you he was fine. He’s very good at acting when he needs to be, actually. It’s a bit terrifying. But I should have come to you and told you what was really going on. I should have asked you what was really going on with _you_. Maybe none of this would have happened. Maybe I could have supported you both better.”

_I’m here. I can hear you. Please tell me more. Please explain this more. I can’t focus._

“John, you’re Sherlock’s entire world … and as such, you are _family_. You’re part of our family and I will take care of this as best I can. I’m so sorry that I am too late. Too late to stop … this. To stop what’s happened to you. But I will find a way to … allow the two of you to be happy in life. Even if it’s not together. I will repair this. John if you can hear me. _Sherlock still loves you._ He is a broken man right now. But he loves you and I hope you can hang onto the memory of him somewhere in there.”

_I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Who are you? Who is Sherlock? Please tell me._

“I’m so sorry they did this to you. I know it’s too late to fix it. But I will help Sherlock as best I can, as much as he will allow me to … to move on, beyond this. And I hope that he will move away from the drugs and survive this. I’m not sure how I am going to be able to do it. But I will. For you. I owe you that much – to give Sherlock a life. Even if you’re not in it.”

_Please stay. Please tell me more. I’m confused._

“I just had to come and see for myself John. I had to come and see. In case there was a chance that I could repair things … more quickly. But I see I am too late. _I am too late._ And I am just so sorry. I’m so sorry that this has been done to you. And I will make those people pay. I will … I will fix _that_ at least. You can count on that. And I will still hold out hope that one day, you might be back. You might come back to us. To our family. You have been the best thing in his life. I know that now.”

_Please hear me. I don’t understand! Who is this person I am supposed to be with?_

A nurse entered, arms full of equipment, interrupting Mycroft. “Oh, I’m so sorry to interrupt, I didn’t realise he had another visitor today.”

Mycroft stood up, taking in the nurse and sizing up how to tackle this.

“Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met you before …” she said, and her voice had a slightly wary edge to it. “I wasn’t aware he had more family. Are you on the visitor’s list?”

“Yes, he does have more family. I’m his uh … I am his partner’s brother.” Mycroft tried to be cautious.

“Oh, is that Miss Mary? She’s so lovely – comes and visits every day. You just missed her actually …” The nurse simpered, gesturing out into the corridor.

“ _Mary?!_ ” Mycroft couldn’t stop himself from reacting and chastised himself internally for not thinking faster. Sherlock would be ashamed of his lack of acting skills under pressure.

“Yes, the lovely blonde lady … isn’t her name Mary? Maybe I got that wrong,” she laughed nervously. There were a lot of names to remember in any one shift. It was likely she was confused on the name.

There was an awkward pause as Mycroft tried to decide what to say next. The nurse began to feel a bit wary as Mycroft hadn’t disguised his look of outrage. John couldn’t see his face clearly, but he could feel the heat radiating off the man in anger.

_He really doesn’t like Mary. I wonder why?_

“Mary … yes that’s right,” he said suddenly with a forced calm. “I didn’t realise she had already visited. Sorry I’m done here anyway. I’ll leave so you can …” he gestured to the bathing equipment she had in her hands.

“Lovely thank you. We can’t have this one missing out on a bath, now can we?” the nurse said in her most condescending tone and John felt embarrassed at how childish that made him feel. He didn't know how old he was but if the photos were anything to go by, he sure as hell was old enough not to be treated like a toddler having a sponge bath.

The man stepped back closer, taking a moment to place a hand on John’s shoulder.

“John, take care. And try to remember … fight this and try to remember everything …” And with that the man left the room.

_No don’t go! Don’t leave me here!_

He closed his eyes, his head throbbing.

When he opened his eyes, he was back in the room with Claire. His cheeks wet from tears.

“Oh god! How could they? How could they do that to their own child? I had … no idea who anyone was. No idea who I was. _No idea._ ” John placed his head in his hands, using his finger tips to push hard into his eye sockets, as if that could erase the memory of what he had just experienced.

“John this may seem like a strange suggestion, but I wonder … I think it might be good for you to go and make amends with your parents,” Claire pressed gently.

“You can’t be serious!” he shouted, lifting his head to glare at her in disgust.

“I am actually. I think that maybe, armed with this information, this memory, you should go and see them. Confront them about what they did. It might be an important step forward.” She tried to be encouraging.

“It was abuse Claire. What they did to me was straight out abuse! You want me to face my abusers and demand answers?” he yelled at her.

“It’s not always what I would advise, no. But in this case, I think you should, yes. You are piecing everything together now. You and Sherlock are in a … reasonably good place, despite the traumatic sessions. In fact, take Sherlock with you. I think talking this through with them, telling them what you went through, is important. Maybe even making amends. It may surprise you. They may not have had sinister motives. And maybe hearing that from them will help you to heal. To help _both_ of you to heal. I want you to think about it at least.” Claire began jotting notes on her notebook.

John couldn’t think about anything at all right now. The very idea made him sick to his stomach.

“I can’t see how it will help. I can’t even comprehend how they could have meant it with good intentions. But I will think about it. I’ll talk to Sherlock.” John let out a sigh. He had to trust Claire’s judgement a little bit at least. She had done so much to help. Her judgement had been excellent up to now. He just didn’t know if he had the strength to do it.

“Mycroft gave me the files, from my therapy. And another journal,” John decided to tell her.

“Ah, that’s why he was here. He’s very good at locating information.” Claire said it in a reverent way. “How are you feeling about that?”

“I’m terrified. But I need to know. I need to know if it was the accident, or the therapy, or both, that did all of this to me,” John said, nodding to himself.

“Well you know how to reach me if you need support. If what you find in there is too much,” Claire said calmly. “And promise you’ll think about contacting your parents? Perhaps something you find in those files will make it clearer what you need to do to proceed with that,” she suggested.

“Perhaps it will.” John stood, ready to leave, eager to get back to Sherlock, to tell him about the session. And to sit and read his files.


	16. For John

“It seems that I used this journal as letters to you,” John said absentmindedly as he flicked through the pages. He was sitting comfortably on the couch, with Sherlock’s head resting on his thigh. John was reading through various entries from his journal aloud while Sherlock flicked through papers from the file, doing his best to decipher the medical jargon. Sherlock had stretched out along the rest of the couch, with his long legs bent up, resting the folder against his lap as he picked out pages to read. The two of them were enjoying the peace and quiet of this domestic moment. John was very relieved that Sherlock was now out of the bedroom and moving about the apartment. Mrs Hudson had done wonders. Sherlock had even eaten breakfast apparently. He was much calmer, much more settled.

Sherlock hummed at John in interest, tilting his head a little to indicate he was listening, so John began to read some of the more interesting entries out to him.

_Sherlock_

_I’ve been in the hospital for a while now. I’m not sure how long it’s even been since the accident. They apparently put me in an induced coma for a while to help with recovery._

_I haven’t got my computer any more – my parents wanted me to just focus on getting better. So, no email and no blogs, which I’m missing._

_I’ve made friends with one of the lovely nurses at the hospital and told her things. She comes and talks to me each day when she’s on her rounds. I told her about my plan to study medicine, and I told her how I usually keep a blog and how I would read it to you. I think she likes me. Not that I’m interested. Just to be clear. Anyway, she gave me a journal to write in, as a present. I’m going to use the journal to write to you and keep you posted._

_As soon as I’m out of this place, I will come and find you and sort all of this mess out. God, I hope you’re okay._

_John_

_Sherlock_

_They’ve moved me to a new place. I’m not sure what it is – a clinic of some kind. Seemingly for some kind of rehabilitation. I’m still having to be moved about in a wheelchair. Seems the swelling from the accident hasn’t gone down yet and I’m a bit paralysed. If that is such a thing. A **bit** paralysed. I can hear you laughing at me – that warm chuckle of yours. I miss that so much right now. I miss being able to talk to you._

_I can still move my arms a bit, but my legs don’t want to work, and my neck has trouble moving. They seem to think when the swelling goes down, I’ll be able to move normally again though. So, I will be doing some physical therapy. It’s not so bad here. I have a digital radio sort of thing in my room to listen to music which has been nice since there’s not much else to do. My parents won’t even bring my text books to let me try and study right now. There’s this violin song I listen to while I write my journal. It reminds me of you._

_My parents just keep saying you’re fine and not to worry. They said they will keep you updated. It’s weird that you haven’t been to see me though. I don’t even know if they’ve told you where I am, I don’t know where you are, if you’re okay. There’re so many things I need to say to you. That I didn’t get to say to you that night._

_But at least I’ve got this journal. I’m going to keep writing things down for you and then when I can see you again you can read it all and know everything that’s been happening. I don’t know why but I feel like I need to hide it from my parents. Hopefully they don’t find it._

_John_

_Sherlock_

_Well it’s official. I hate my physical therapist. She is the devil incarnate I’m sure of it. The physical therapy is hard, and painful. And I know I’m being a stubborn git. But I don’t want to do it. I have a counsellor too, who comes and sits with me and talks about lots of things. Asks me lots of questions. He asked about the accident. He asked me a lot about you. I don’t know how much to tell him, honestly. I don’t feel like I can trust him somehow. And it feels wrong talking about you – about us – to other people, before I can talk to you about it and reassure myself you’re okay. Or that we’re okay. That you’ve forgiven me. That you still want anything to do with me at all. I did ask if he would get in touch, tell you where I was. The smile he gave me didn’t foster much confidence that he would help though._

_Where are you Sherlock?_

_John_

_I don’t even want to write your name today. I don’t think I’m going to see you again, am I?_

_I haven’t written for a few days. Things have been … foggy. I can’t explain it. They are giving me some medication … to help with my spine maybe? They did tell me. But it makes me very dizzy and I’m finding it hard to think straight. They are worried about my body not healing as fast. The therapy was supposed to be helping but it feels like it’s harder to move, it’s getting harder to write. It hurts my arm. I heard them talking about electro therapy outside my door, with my parents. I’m not convinced that’s a good thing but what would I know. It’s worrying me a bit. If only I had already got on to the medical degree and had some more knowledge. I wanted to ask them more, but I keep forgetting what I want to say. This medication is strong. I sleep a lot._

_I miss you._

_J_

_I don’t know what kind of therapy they are trying to give me in this place, but it doesn’t seem to be right and it doesn’t seem to be helping._

_And I think they’re trying to take you away from me … they’re trying to make me forget you. You changed my life, you made me a better person. I will **never**_ _let you go. They can torture me, and try to break me, but I know I will never let you go. And even if they do succeed … even if I do forget … I will have this journal and I will always remember. I promise to always remember. I refuse to let them take that from me. My gorgeous man, with your curls and your eyes and your magic voice, and your intelligence and your kindness. I’m locking those thoughts as far away in my brain as I can. Where they can’t get to them. And I will always be yours._

_I love you. I didn’t show you properly, not in the end. I messed up so much. I think you have probably decided you’re better off without me though. Otherwise you would have come. But I need you to know, even if I never see you again, that I do love you. That it was always you. I won’t let them take you from me. Not again. Not you … and not the memory of you._

_But I’m scared._

John stopped, placing the journal down to rest on his knee, away from Sherlock’s head, taking it in.

“I couldn’t even write your name. I gave up even _writing_ it.” He shook his head. “There’s no entries after that. Well there’s a couple of pages with indiscernible scribble. I guess I stopped being able to write properly even? Or think? By the sounds of that.” John felt sick to the pit of his stomach. He rubbed his hand over his face, tired from reading it already. His brain hurt just trying to comprehend it all.

“Hmmm,” Sherlock hummed, distracted and deep in thought as he continued reading. He reached a hand up behind his head, to touch John’s arm in support. He seemed unfocussed but John knew, Sherlock was the master of multi-tasking. He had taken in every word.

“Sherlock, it wasn’t the accident. Don’t you see? I still knew you, after the accident. I still wanted to find you, to not forget you. But I _knew_ they were trying to take my memories away. I must have been so scared,” John said sadly.

Sherlock tipped his head back to find John’s eyes and reassure him. “You never did forget, John. Not really. Even with the amnesia, there was always something in you that knew you had to be near me. You were right. You locked some of the memories deep inside so no-one would touch them.” And he smiled. John answered it with a smile. They were going to try to handle all of this calmly and together. That was what they had agreed. To focus on moving forward. And here was Sherlock, being the positive one. After the last few days, it made John’s heart grow just knowing Sherlock still had faith in them too.

“What have you found then?” John asked, nodding at the papers in his hand.

“Well, a lot of it doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock said, returning his eyes to the papers, flicking through them. “It seems they tried a mix of electro-shock and some sort of classical conditioning. All pretty standard for any kind of aversion therapy. I suspect from what I’m reading, they expected to just make you averse to the homosexual tendencies and have you lose interest in reconnecting with me. Keeping me away helped with that, of course. But it looks like the amnesia was an unintended result. The accident may have caused some scar tissue they hadn’t foreseen, maybe the electro-therapy created an unexpected blockage? I mean I’m not a doctor, we should get someone medical to look over this in more detail and explain it to us.”

John couldn’t speak for a moment, but he hummed in agreement. They would need more help for this.

“One of the doctors made a note here that he believed your memory blockages were purely a defence mechanism, but so deeply entrenched after so much trauma, that it stuck a lot more firmly than any of them had planned,” Sherlock paraphrased. “I mean, certainly the fact that your memories are returning with some prompting, would indicate that might have been true. Your brain went into a sort of caretaker mode,” Sherlock continued.

John finally started to process everything and sat up a bit straighter. Sherlock shuffled to accommodate his change of position but stayed on his lap still, wanting the closeness.

“They … they used the accident … the brain injuries from the accident, the need for intensive physical therapy, what I had already suffered … against me.” He processed it as he tried to say it aloud. “And they tried to reset my memory? They erased the idea that I might be attracted to men altogether. They erased _you_.” John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock’s chest, and Sherlock put his hand on top.

“I mean, what your parents chose for you, was not the right decision. Of course I know that. But John, I don’t think they _meant_ for you to get amnesia. That’s all I’m saying,” Sherlock tried to placate.

“It doesn’t make _any of that_ okay,” John said coldly.

“No, you’re right. It doesn’t.” Sherlock nodded, stroking his hand. “And I think they were probably relieved that they didn’t have to wrestle with any of that, since you had forgotten.”

“And Mary? How could they just … insert someone … a stranger … into my life as some sort of easy fix-it?” John shook his head.

“I’m not saying any of it is right. It certainly baffles the mind doesn’t it? Even _mine_ ,” Sherlock admitted. They both sat there, stunned and unsure what to think, where to read next. John was tired. After the therapy and this tough week worrying about Sherlock, and now all of this new information, he was suddenly very, very tired.

“How about I make us some tea?” Sherlock suggested, and he sat up, lifting the file off his lap.

A small yellow envelope fell out of the file, seemingly quite heavy as it hit the ground with a loud clunk, catching their attention.

“What’s that?” John asked, looking confused.

Sherlock bent down to pick it up. “I don’t know, it just fell out of the folder. It must have been caught amongst the papers,” he said, turning it over in his hand. The envelope had _John Watson_ on it, so he handed it to John to allow him to open it and waited with interest. John peeled the top of the envelope open carefully, peeping inside before tipping the contents onto the palm of his hand. A silver ring and a small USB stick fell out.

“A ring? Did I used to wear a ring?” John asked, looking up at Sherlock for confirmation as he moved it around his palm, the ring starting to split. “Oh, it breaks apart, look!”

“Oh, let me see.” Sherlock grabbed it, moving it between his fingers. “It’s very intricate. Oh, it’s a puzzle ring! I love those. Have you seen them before? They unlink and you have to piece them back together.” He played with it for a moment, showing John how to pull it apart and piece it back together, concentrating hard and thinking as he did it. Then he took a moment to really look at it, brow furrowed. “But no … no you never wore that. _I_ never saw you wear it before, at least. Not in all the time I knew you,” he admitted.

“That’s strange,” John said absently as he put it on his finger. It fit and he twisted it mindlessly around. His brow creased as he tried to experience the sensation of the ring on his finger and see if it felt familiar. Not feeling anything about it at all, he returned his focus to the memory stick in his other hand. “And another mysterious USB,” he said to Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye. The last time he got a USB, Mycroft had secured some files, from his old computer. Some of his old blogs. He was a little excited to see what was on there. “I might fire up the computer and check out what’s on this while you’re making the tea then,” John said getting up from the couch, with a groan. His fatigue was showing.

The burden of all this new information was weighing heavily on his shoulders. He knew that he had come through all of it, out the other side and he was happy with his life now. But it was very hard to let go of what had been, of what had happened. Of what _should_ have been, without all of this mess. He couldn’t align the parents he knew, the parts he remembered, with the people who would allow these things to happen to him. All families had their problems, no doubt. But he had always thought he had loved his family. Did they even know or understand what they had done? It made him think about Claire’s words. About how it might be good for him to go to them and ask these questions. He would need to be strong to do that. _They_ would need to be strong – he would not go without Sherlock. However, he knew he had not demonstrated a lot of strength so far and it occurred to him that maybe this was the ultimate opportunity to show himself and to show to Sherlock, that he could be strong. That he could stand up for them, for their future, and confront his demons. Make his parents explain and apologise.

“I mean, honestly though, how could anyone do that to their own child?” John finally said to Sherlock aloud, from the lounge, playing with the ring on his finger as he waited for the computer to boot up.

“People do all manner of strange things in the name of love,” Sherlock replied as he began clattering around in the kitchen. Only Sherlock could create a production out of making a cup of tea. “We’ve experienced that, John. At the hands of each other. _And_ my brother. I don’t think people do things like that with the intent to hurt. Mycroft was trying to be helpful. You were trying to be kind. I was trying to be invisible. Your parents were trying to protect you and help you to be normal, I suppose. They saw an opportunity and they took it.” Sherlock was always far more pragmatic about these things. John was the emotional one. He needed to understand their motives, whereas Sherlock seemed not to really be bothered by that.

“I’m sure they blamed _me_ for the fact that you were even _in_ that accident, John. Not Sarah. Keeping us apart was a mercy to you in their eyes. The fact that we were together, and it went against their beliefs didn’t help, but I think either way, they wanted us away from each other – just as Mycroft had. In the interest of protecting us. Apparently, your father made quite a scene when he filed for the restraining order. He did not want you within a ten-mile radius of me. He made that all very clear.”

“But even _you_ didn’t want me near you,” John said, remembering how scared Sherlock had been that they were even talking to each other.

“I didn’t want them to take you away again. I didn’t know how they would react if they found out I was there. I think they expected me to make a scene and come for you, after the accident but, we’re English John. My family convinced me it was best for us all if I walked away. By the time I was out of rehab, it was just … easier.” Sherlock’s thoughts drifted off and he stood in a bit of a daze in the kitchen. That had been one of the hardest things for him to do. To let go of John and accept that whatever had happened, wherever he was, it was just … over. And that everyone around him felt that was the right choice, when every fibre of his being told him otherwise. He had been completely alone.

John was so annoyed, knowing they had both made decisions in the interest of what was best for everyone else … everyone except themselves. He would spend the rest of his life making sure Sherlock knew being apart was the last thing he wanted ever again. Finally, the computer fired up, making its obligatory noises and John plugged in the memory stick.

“Oh. There’s only a sound file and a word document. The sound file is labelled: _‘For John’._ Should I open it?” John scrunched up his face nervously, looking towards Sherlock.

“Sure. Why not?” Sherlock responded from the kitchen.

“I’m always worried it will be a virus or something.” John began to click on it anyway.

“I mean if it’s in with your belongings it must be …”

The instant the music started up, John gasped and flopped back in his chair. Sherlock dropped the tea cup out of his hand and it smashed on the floor, surprising John. He walked out into the lounge; his eyes fixed on the computer in shock.

“Sherlock …?” John asked, seeing the look on his face.

“How? _What the hell John!_ How do you have that?” Sherlock asked urgently, not looking him in the eye but staring at the computer. The strains of a stunningly beautiful violin piece drifted out of John’s laptop speakers and into the air between them in the lounge room. Instantly John was transported back to his room in the clinic. He could see himself sitting in his wheelchair, writing on a small table at the side of the room, listening to the music.

“I know this music …” John said absently, taking in the sensation of his memory unfolding.

“How do you _have_ it? How could you _possibly_ know it?” Sherlock demanded, his voice cracking, he raked his hands over his face and then ruffled his curls, trying to get a handle on what was happening. John snapped out of his own thoughts as he realised Sherlock was very upset all of a sudden.

“I don’t know. I don’t know! It was just in the envelope with the ring. Sherlock, what is it?” John asked him.

“How could you have it though?” Sherlock was walking forward, looking at the computer a little in fear. “I never …”

“What is it? I don’t understand, Sherlock. Is that _you_?” John asked, realising why he was so shocked.

“Yes, it’s me.” Sherlock sounded annoyed. Of course it was him. The playing was beautiful, skilful and the melody wove around in an intricate dance, wrapping around John’s heart and squeezing.

“Sherlock? That’s _you_ playing …? But what song is it? I know this song. It’s not the Ravel, obviously. How do I know this one? I can’t place it,” John asked him. He was frozen in his chair, unable to move, unable to understand what was happening. The song finished, sounding slightly incomplete, but stunning nonetheless.

“I don’t understand _how_. I never gave it to you.” Sherlock was talking more to himself at this point. He walked past John to the window and was in his own world for the moment, leaning against the sill, his back to John.

“Let’s look at the other file on here, then.” John opened it and started reading aloud, since Sherlock was not going to answer him.

_John_

_I popped in to visit but you were sleeping. They said you are out of your coma which is great news, but still not awake very much of the day. From what information I could gather from one of the nurses, you haven’t had any visitors. Strange that Sherlock hasn’t been yet … I hope he’s okay. I haven’t been able to get in touch with him. I thought you might like to have this in the meantime. I don’t know how he will feel about me giving it to you. It fell out of his pocket at the accident, when they were taking all the drugs from him, I suspect. I found it on the ground, after they took him away. Anyway, I checked it later, and the file was called **For John**_ **.** _I had a listen. It’s really beautiful. He must really love you, John. I thought you should have this while the two of you are apart. To remind you. Listening to music is meant to be good for healing. And what better music than this? Something just for you! He can tear my limbs off later if it was meant to be a surprise or something._

_Anyway, the lovely nurse said she will be able to look after it and make sure you get it. She let me type up a letter to go with it. Hopefully you have something you can view my letter on and can play the file. I think she likes you – just saying. Mind you, I might give it a crack and ask her for a drink. Since you’re already taken – haha! Don’t hate me._

_I’ll try and come back in a couple of days. I have a few hectic days at uni, but I’ve asked the nurse to keep me posted (I hope you don’t mind me using you as an excuse to give her my number!) and I’ll drop back, and we can chat then._

_Rest up John. Enjoy the music._

_Mike._

“Mike.” John shook his head. “I don’t remember this letter. I’m not sure I ever read this without a computer. I don’t remember him ever coming to see me. But I definitely listened to the song. I remember it. They must have let me play it at the clinic somehow …”

“I wrote it. It’s a song I wrote … _was_ writing … for you.” Sherlock was struggling to get the words out. “At first it was a love song, I was writing it for you as a gift … and then when you broke up with me … I wrote some more of it while we were apart. I never finished it because the drugs made it harder for me to focus on the music. I couldn’t finish it.” Sherlock wrapped his arms across his chest defensively and began biting nervously at his thumb nail.

“It’s beautiful. _I know it._ I … remember it.” John tried to say something, anything to try and bring Sherlock back from whatever edge he was nervously walking towards. His current demeanour unsettled John. They were having such a calm afternoon, and now he was edgy, his foot tapping incessantly on the floor. He did not want Sherlock heading back to lock himself away in the bedroom again.

John stood up and walked over to him. Maybe giving him some contact, focussing him back on the two of them …

“I never expected you to hear it,” he said sadly, and John touched his arms. Sherlock looked at him, finally. His eyes were wet with tears.

“You were writing it … the day I came here and … and I broke us apart, weren’t you?” John said, remembering that moment standing and watching Sherlock from the doorway as he played the most beautiful melody he’d ever heard. _It was a song for him_. Sherlock nodded, unable to speak.

“I remember,” John said as he reached up and put his hand on Sherlock’s face. “I remember all of it, Sherlock.” And he pulled at Sherlock’s waist gently which was all Sherlock needed before falling forward to dissolve into tears on his shoulder. John stroked at his back.

“It’s absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard,” he said, as he kissed the top of Sherlock’s head. “Sherlock, I know I have a lot to make up to you. For the heartache and the uncertainty.”

“John, I never thought I would see you again. I never thought you would hear that song. I never …” Sherlock couldn’t stop the words coming out in a flurry. “I’m sorry you went through all of that, at the clinic and I wasn’t there. We didn’t get to you in time. If only I’d done something.”

“It doesn’t matter now, Sherlock. Shhhh. It honestly doesn’t matter. We’re together now.” John hugged him close.

“But you might have never …” Sherlock began.

“Hey.” John pulled Sherlock off his shoulder and grabbed his face with his hands. “You can’t keep thinking like that. Besides, I don’t think you understand just how crazy I was about you Sherlock … even before I realised I was crazy about you. Even when you were just buying me coffee and helping me with university work. Even when I came here and broke your heart. Even with the drugs. I was always crazy about you. There was never going to be any amount of torture that would let me forget you. And now that I have you back, things are going to be better, Sherlock. We can really start to heal.”

Sherlock sniffed and let out a big sigh. “Do you really like it?” he asked finally, a little shy all of a sudden. “It’s not finished yet."

“I love it,” John said, giving Sherlock a reassuring look. “Really. It’s the most beautiful song.” He kissed Sherlock on the lips, gently. “And now we have time to finish so many things. Thank you for waiting for me, Sherlock. Thank you for waiting for me to find you again.”

They smiled at each other. Just standing there in each other’s arms was all either of them needed.

“Well now, I was making tea.” Sherlock suddenly took a cleansing breath and wiped his eyes, laughing at himself for being so emotional. John smiled and gave him another quick kiss on the cheek.

“Tea would be great,” he said as Sherlock ran his hand across John’s body in affection, on his way to the kitchen. “We can sit and read some more of the files together. You know, Claire thinks we should go together … to see my parents,” he said a little tentatively towards the kitchen, anxious for Sherlock’s response.

“Hmmm and what do _you_ think?” Sherlock asked him as he set about cleaning up the broken mug first. Luckily it wasn’t his favourite.

“I’ve thought about it – a lot – on the way home from the session today. I think it could be a good idea. So I can get answers and put it to bed. No matter what. But I need you with me. I can’t do it without you.”

Sherlock smiled at that sentiment, but it was brief. His face dropped suddenly. “Do you think that’s a good idea John? They don’t think much of me.”

“Well, they don’t think much of _either_ of us it seems. Might as well go in as a unified team,” John said with confidence.

“Fair point.” Sherlock smiled at him. “Of course I will go with you – if that’s what you want – you know that.”

“Right then. No time like the present. I’ll try giving them a call, shall I?” John said as he grabbed his phone out of his pocket.

“Might as well.” Sherlock gave him a reassuring smile and nod as he placed the tea bags into the mugs and started pouring out the hot water from the kettle.

John started to pace nervously in the lounge room as he waited for the phone to connect, throwing a nervous glance at Sherlock.

“Oh Mum, hi. It’s John … yes hi … it’s good to hear your voice too … I just wondered if … maybe I could come for a visit on the weekend …?” His voice shook a little nervously and he looked across at Sherlock again, who nodded at him in reassurance.

“Okay yes … that would be fine … we’ll get the train up … yes Sherlock too … okay … well yes until Saturday then … yes? Oh … sorry … what? I … Mum I don’t know what to … when?” John’s stilted confused conversation was suddenly very serious.

Sherlock stirred sugar into the teas, trying not to make too much noise with the spoon so he could listen in, trying to figure out what was going on. He looked to John with concern as John stopped talking, stopped pacing and listened.

“… okay well thank you for letting me know … let’s talk when I’m there … I … sorry Mum …” and John hung up his phone without finishing the call properly. He walked towards the kitchen, looking stunned.

“John, what is it?” Sherlock asked, worried, expecting John to say they wouldn’t see him, or they refused for Sherlock to come along.

“It’s my dad. He had a heart attack,” John said a little distantly, looking at Sherlock, his brow furrowed.

“Is he okay?” Sherlock asked, handing John his mug of tea.

“No,” John said, confused. “No, he’s not. He died. Two months ago.”


	17. Home

“You’re going to have to go inside eventually, you know,” Sherlock said gently, but stood very still behind John, not forcing the point.

They had been on the laneway in front of the house for ten minutes, just staring at the door. The old brick house was small, lined up in a row with the other terraced houses all the way along. The front was overrun with greenery, crawling up the brickwork and the tiled roof was rickety and had not been cleared of moss for a while. It was in a state of disrepair, but it was somehow charming, despite the tiny front garden bed which needed weeding. The front door was painted in an olive green but looked like it was ready for a new coat of paint. Sherlock had never been to John’s family home in all the time they had known each other, and it looked nothing like he expected at all.

“I know, _I know_. I just need a minute,” John said, his hands clenching and unclenching, his breath uneven as he tried to calm himself. He certainly wasn’t sharing his feelings in this moment. Despite Sherlock’s efforts to get him to talk on the way, he had been tight lipped the whole trip. Sherlock couldn’t imagine how he must be feeling. He was terrified himself.

“John it’s okay to be nervous – completely natural – but I’m right here,” he reassured gently.

“I’m not nervous …” he said defensively, looking behind him to Sherlock in annoyance, who was already giving him the look which said: _I’m not an idiot remember._ John tilted his head in apology.

“Okay I _am._ You’re right. I _am_ nervous. I don’t know what to say to her … about Dad. I don’t even know how I _feel_ about that yet. Let alone everything else I was supposed to be coming here to talk to her about.” He looked over his shoulder to Sherlock, desperately hoping for some help. In that moment, John’s heart swelled. Sherlock had combed his curls to try and look more presentable, and he had worn one of his nice suits. He insisted on stopping for flowers before they left London. John wasn’t even sure his mother would let Sherlock through the door at this point. Flowers were hardly going to soften the blow of that. But he had humoured him. Now seeing him there, waiting, Sherlock looked like a teenager arriving to take his date to prom. If John wasn’t so nervous, he wouldn’t be able to resist giggling at the sight of him. Sherlock looked a little nervous himself, standing stiffly, and John was so proud that he was doing his best to help John and ignore his own anxieties right now.

“I’m pretty sure, if nothing else, amnesia gives you a brilliant cover for _not_ needing to say much at all John,” Sherlock said, trying to lighten the mood. When John didn’t smile, but turned back to look at the door, he redirected to something a little more helpful. “Sorry. Okay, it’s not funny. Just remember why you’re here. Focus on that. Don’t let that stop you from asking her tough questions or at least starting a dialogue. You don’t have to leave with every answer today, though. It’s just a first step. Isn’t that what Claire would say?” he said, stepping a little closer to John’s back and resting his chin down on John’s shoulder for a second. “You can do this. And I’m right here,” he whispered into John’s ear.

John closed his eyes and smiled, suddenly feeling much more relaxed. “How did I get so lucky to deserve you?”

“You’re right. You did get really, _really_ lucky,” Sherlock said, nodding and chuckling softly as he removed his chin from John’s shoulder to step back and give him space. John turned around instead to look at him again.

“Yeah. I really did.” They stood there looking into each other’s eyes for a moment, just feeling contented and ignoring the fact that they were about to do something incredibly uncomfortable.

John leaned forward and gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the lips before turning around again to take in the house.

“Do we _really_ have to do this though?” he repeated.

“Well no, we don’t. But that was a pretty long train ride for us to come to this village, just to stand out the front of your childhood home kissing on the street. So, I think maybe trying to go inside might be a good idea,” Sherlock joked.

John nodded and rolled his eyes. _Always so serious,_ he thought affectionately _._ “Right then.” He stepped forward closer to the door, his heart beating wildly in his chest. It felt strange to knock on his own front door. He actually couldn’t remember if he had ever done that before.

He heard footsteps inside coming closer and he waited, fighting the urge to flee. He was so very glad Sherlock had come. Just the sense of him standing there behind him in support was enough to keep his feet from running in the opposite direction.

“It’s going to be okay,” Sherlock whispered, leaning in closer to him again. John could feel Sherlock’s warm breath on his neck and he closed his eyes again to try and calm his nerves.

The door was flung open, catching them by surprise in the moment. Looking up, they were both speechless at the unexpected person behind the door – _Mike Stamford._ All three of them stood with mouths gaping for a comical moment, none of them able to speak. John’s brow knitted together in confusion and he leaned back to look at the house number on the brick, in case he had knocked on the wrong door accidentally. But no, he was in the right place.

“Mike?” John’s eyes widened in surprise, unable to think what to say.

“John? Oh John!” Mike began to laugh, his grin widening at the sight in front of him, looking between John and Sherlock, both standing there awkwardly. Sherlock looked perfectly ridiculous standing there with a large bunch of flowers in his hands, and whatever was going on with his hair. But Mike was so incredibly relieved to see they were standing there _together,_ so he didn’t say anything about that.

“Oh, John! It’s _so_ good to see you. Your mother didn’t tell me you were coming!” Mike threw himself forward, giving John a huge hug, which knocked the air out of his lungs. “And you know who I am!” Mike was incredibly excited.

“What … on earth?” John coughed out. He couldn’t get his brain to process what was happening.

“Mike? What are you …?” Sherlock began, also caught a bit off guard.

“Hey mate.” Mike looked up, giving Sherlock a nod from over John’s shoulder.

“Oh god it’s good to see you both!” he repeated as he patted John’s back and came out of the hug.

“Get in here both of you, out of the cold.” He pulled John forward into the doorway, gesturing wildly for Sherlock to follow. “Coats just there on the hook and you can leave your shoes here too if you like. Mrs W prefers socks only on the floors. Of course, you probably already know that, John. Sorry.” He was suddenly embarrassed that he was directing John in his own home and he blushed.

They stood in the little entranceway, still a bit perplexed and staring at Mike, speechless. Mike realised he was going to have to explain.

“I’ve been helping your mother regularly since your dad …” Mike started, as they fixed their coats and shoes. The inside of the home was warm – _she always did know how to make the place feel homely and welcoming,_ John thought in annoyance. Something about it just made the butterflies in his gut churn a bit more. His mind couldn’t marry the instinctually happy feeling he had of being _home_ with the fact that his own mother had lied and lied. Everyone around him had lied. _Even Sherlock._ He tried to put that thought aside, but under the surface he could feel it all bubbling and festering and he wasn’t sure how he was going to remain calm.

“She’s just out the back in the garden. Oh, she’ll be so thrilled to see you! She’s been very … lonely,” Mike said sadly, and John couldn’t help feeling a little sting at that. He was pretty sure his mother had no concept of what lonely really felt like – not the way _John_ had experienced it. For John, he hadn’t even known who he was _himself._ It’s pretty lonely when your own brain is also a stranger. Let alone the fact that he had lost contact with the love of his life – _and_ Mike too. No, he was pretty sure she had no idea what lonely was. Not really. He couldn’t help the bitter laugh that escaped at that, and he could see Sherlock out of the corner of his eye looking at him, a little worried at his reaction.

“I can’t even think when I saw you last, Mike. And now … here you are.” John didn’t mean it to come out with so much acid, but it did. “I’m sorry … I’m just so surprised.”

“Ah, yeah I know. It’s been well … it was actually the night of the party … of the accident,” Mike realised nervously, not able to look either of them in the eye. “You haven’t really seen me since then,” Mike said uncomfortably. And they all stood there, the gravity of that night weighing heavily on them.

“Sorry John, I didn’t want to …” Mike raked his hands through his hair, suddenly feeling self-conscious and noting that John was seemingly a bit threatened by his presence. “I visited you once in the hospital, though, but you were sleeping. When I came back they had moved you already.”

“Yeah we just found the memory stick the other day amongst some of my things actually – the one you left me with the letter and the song.” John nodded, remembering Mike’s note. “I didn’t realise it had been from you.”

Mike was confused for a moment and then a spark of recognition came across his face and he quickly glanced nervously at Sherlock, remembering he had passed on the file without checking. But Sherlock was looking at the floor, not making eye contact with any of them, deep in thought.

“I came again to the clinic eventually to see you, you know. Your dad wasn’t allowing visitors but they let me come and see you just once … and your memory was … well you got really distressed about seeing me because you couldn’t remember … and so I thought it would be best for me to just stay away.” Mike looked guiltily at John, hoping for some sort of reaction, but John was stoic and unreadable. Sherlock was staring into the flowers in his hand, not looking either.

Mike was beginning to ramble to fill the awkwardness with chatter. “We moved here recently, so I’ve just been helping where I can since then, just quietly. I’m married now. Got a little one on the way. Gina – that’s my wife – she’s lovely. You’d like her … actually you might remember her … or you might not. The nurse? From the hospital?”

“Really?” John was surprised.

“Yes, I asked her to coffee … and well the rest is history, as they say.” He smiled and John felt awful for being so tough on him. His very dear friend was here, in front of him, and he was happy. And he had been helping his mum. He should be grateful. “You should come by for lunch some time … the both of you.” He looked between them and Sherlock looked up and smiled but it seemed a bit forced. John still couldn’t say anything else as he tried to accept all the new information. Mike sensed he would need to get out of the way – they were clearly here with serious intentions by the looks on their faces.

“Look I was actually on my way out and I should get going. Gina’s expecting me home before lunch – pregnant women are demanding. In a good way of course. Oh, it’s really good to see you John,” he said, grabbing John in another hug of relief, catching him off guard. John let out a gush of air at the rough squeeze of his ribs.

Sherlock stood beside John, watching carefully. He hadn’t seen Mike since the accident either and the thoughts in his head were swirling around out of control. The last time they saw each other he had been a mess. A proper mess. Mike had tried so hard to protect him and he had been awful. And then he had been taken away by the police and avoided all of Mike’s attempts to help after that. Mike had left messages and texted and been very worried about why he hadn’t been to see John, where he had ended up, how he was doing. He had basically told Mike to sod off and leave him alone in some way or another. He realised that Mike would have lost both his friends that night as well – at the accident. Mike was the more friendly of the three of them, though. He had always had other friends. But it must have been a terrible night for him as well. Mike made eye contact with Sherlock, hesitantly, seeing him grappling with a lot of thoughts and not saying much.

“You all right Sherlock?” Mike asked, hoping one of them would speak. At least Sherlock could always be relied upon to say something, _anything_.

Sherlock suddenly leapt over and hugged him unexpectedly. “Thank you, Mike. Sorry and _thank you._ ” His voice full of emotion, the memories of all Mike had done to try and help him that night, and to help John, suddenly overwhelming. The realisation that he had been a pretty terrible friend, flooded through him into that hug.

“Oh, it’s fine. Don’t even worry about it,” Mike huffed a little awkwardly, caught completely by surprise. He was pretty sure in their entire history Sherlock had never hugged him. At least never intentionally.

“I know I wasn’t very good to you after …” Sherlock admitted. “I wasn’t good to anyone. I sort of just … dropped out of everything. Sorry.”

“Sherlock, stop,” Mike said, bringing him out of the hug. “You two went through something horrific. Something _really_ horrific, that night. I’m just glad to see you found your way back to each other, honestly.” He gave Sherlock a smile, patting him on both of his upper arms in approval. “And I mean it, you’re both welcome at our home any time,” he said, looking to them both. “Your mum’s got my information. I’m just a few blocks away.”

“Okay thanks,” Sherlock said for them both. John was still not talking. Sherlock was worried this was going to be a long and painful visit if John couldn’t find his words any more.

“Let me just walk you both in and I’ll say goodbye to her first,” Mike said, leading them through the narrow corridor past the flight of stairs and out the kitchen at the back.

“Bye, Mrs Watson! I brought you some visitors too,” he said loudly out the back door, and she turned from what she was doing.

“Oh, goodness!” She came in the door, brushing some soil off her hands. “Hang on.” She rushed to the kitchen sink to wash her hands, wiping them on the hand towel and turning to face them all. “Yes all right, bye Mike. Thanks for everything.” And she came over to kiss Mike on the cheek.

“You just ring me if that pipe plays up again, all right? Promise?” he said to her, scolding. “You know I’m only too happy to come by.”

“Will do,” she blushed.

“I’ll drop by again Monday after work,” he said in reply as he walked back towards the door.

“Okay. Love to Gina,” she called back. 

John was getting increasingly annoyed at how pleasant and comfortable it all was. He had never had this with her and here she was, loving this. She hadn’t even acknowledged their arrival yet.

“Absolutely,” Mike replied at the door as he put on his coat and took in the sight of John and Sherlock one last time, shaking his head. “Stay in touch boys,” he called back to John. But John just stood there staring at his mother, and fuming.

“Will do,” Sherlock said with a nod to Mike, answering on their behalf.

And with that, Mike left, disturbing the stiff silence with the sound of the door closing. And then they were left standing there, uncertain. Mrs Watson watched her son closely, not willing to say or do the wrong thing. Sherlock stepped closer and gave John a gentle nudge with his arm to make him step closer to her.

“Hi Mum,” John finally said, tentatively, as he shot Sherlock an annoyed glance, before stepping forward to give her a forced kiss on the cheek. The movement gave her reassurance and she grabbed him into a tight hug.

“Oh, my boy,” she cried with a sob, her grip so tight. Sherlock stood uncomfortably to the side, out of the way. John had intended not to give an inch but when his mother was so close and so desperate for him, the reaction was primal. He hugged her back, gripping on just as tight for a moment, before hating himself for it and wriggling out of it uncomfortably. He cleared his throat, and looked away, not sure what to do. She laughed off the couple of tears in her eyes, shrugging her shoulders, also unsure how to apologise for taking such a liberty with him.

“Well now, it’s so lovely to see you, John. I’m so glad you came. And how wonderful that you got to see Mike,” she simpered sweetly, trying to pretend everything was normal.

John had forgotten how talented his mother was at avoiding the obvious topic, just talking incessantly with idle chit-chat. It had irritated him to no end when he had moved back home after the clinic for a while and he had promptly forgotten about it as he dealt with his day to day life recently, but now it was all flooding back. John didn’t dignify her with an answer. She never expected one anyway. Years of her husband and her son ignoring her made it routine.

“Hello Mrs Watson,” Sherlock finally asserted between them shyly, since she hadn’t really acknowledged him yet. He was not going to stay quiet and leave John dangling in the breeze to do all the work.

“Oh Sherlock, it _is_ lovely to see you again. Thank you for coming.” She stepped forward as he handed her the flowers.

“Really?” he said with scepticism, looking at John for some assistance, confused that she might actually be happy to see him. After everything. The Watsons had not proven in any way that they approved of him.

“Oh yes of course it is,” she said, shocked that he wouldn’t believe her. “It wasn’t the best circumstances last time, obviously. At the university. But Sherlock, you’ve been looking after my son. How could I _not_ be grateful for that? I know I haven’t done a very good job of parenting – particularly recently – but I’m so thankful for you. _Really_.” She sounded genuine and they were both surprised by it. The silence sat between them again for a long moment. Sherlock cleared his throat and tried not to show that he had teared up at the sentiment. John wasn’t sure how he felt about it at all. It was a lovely gesture, but he was suspicious, and his nerve endings were vibrating, braced for a fight.

“Come and take a seat, I’ll put these in water and boil the kettle.” She guided them to the dining table which sat beside the windows and caught the light from the back garden across it. John was thankful that Sherlock chose to sit beside him and not opposite. He wasn’t sure he could cope if there was a distance between them. From here they could both enjoy the full view to the garden – John had forgotten how lovely it was.

Sherlock could tell she must put a lot of time and effort into making the back garden a sanctuary – clearly better maintained than the front of the house. An array of plants and wildflowers tangled amongst each other in what could be considered messy, but Sherlock recognised patterns to it. _Organised chaos,_ he thought to himself. He understood it. He could see bees buzzing around the flowers and it gave him a little thrill to see this beautiful space. He didn’t get to enjoy beautiful gardens and bees in his city apartment. It was the only thing about city living that he regretted. He loved being close to the hustle and bustle but every so often he longed for this quiet countryside life. He was excited that they could potentially visit here in the future too. If all went well today. They settled at the table as she fussed in the kitchen across the corridor.

“Isn’t Mike lovely to help? That must have been a surprise for you,” she called across from the kitchen in an awkward attempt at a conversation starter. She ran the water into a vase for the flowers and put the kettle on to boil.

“So, Mike’s been visiting regularly then?” John asked, trying to sound casual but Sherlock recognised the note of jealousy in it.

“Yes, he drops by all the time to help. They moved to the area a while back, only live a few streets away. Isn’t that funny? He and his lovely wife take turns to come by and check on me each week. He asks about you all the time, although I never know what to say. I’m so pleased he got to see you,” she said to them, as she walked over to the table, placing a plate of biscuits and the sugar bowl and cream onto the table in front of them on a little silver tray. Sherlock could sense the tension in John already, his shoulders tight and his mouth drawn. He was not at all happy that his mother had found a replacement son. But John didn’t say that aloud. He didn’t say anything at all in fact. Sherlock found it unnerving and he was waiting for John to snap – he knew it was coming.

“Well now, tell me about how you’ve been. How are you boys doing in London?” she asked brightly as she sat at the head of the table, awaiting the kettle. She clasped her hands together in front of her and her eyes sparkled, ready for them to regale her with tales of adventure, it seemed. John stayed silent and Sherlock felt he needed to jump in – he felt bad for her. She was trying so hard to be welcoming.

“Yes, ah … good. We’re good.” Sherlock gave a forced smile, desperately trying to think what else to add as John sat, glaring into the wood of the table, apparently investigating the grain of it with great interest. “We’ve just finished exams.”

“Wonderful. Do you think you went all right then?” she continued. Sherlock could feel it brewing – John was seething. It was like she had no sense of his mood, or of how insensitive she was being by talking about such banal things. But Sherlock couldn’t seem to stop the runaway train that was this visit, and he couldn’t stand to ignore her in silence if John was too.

“Yes, I think so, considering it’s been a messy six months. I think we did okay but …” 

Finally, John interrupted: “You _do realise_ we moved universities, _Mum_?” He spat it without trying to hide his anger. “We had to _move_? Thanks to your stunt with the Dean? We moved into Sherlock’s flat? We’re _living_ together. What do you say to that?” he pressed, begging for a fight.

She was caught off guard by the sudden change in mood and she let out a shallow laugh nervously, defensively. “Well that’s fine, John. You seem to be happy. _Are_ you happy?” she asked, hopeful, trying to diffuse things.

John stared at her in shock. He couldn’t decide whether to continue being rude or to just accept that she was not going to acknowledge how awful things had become between them. He didn’t know where to place the anger he was feeling, the churning frustrated bitter feeling swirling around in his chest.

He let out a loud frustrated sigh. “Yes, Mum. I _am_ happy. _We_ are very happy. As much as we can be … considering.” And he let that sit there, mocking her.

“Well that’s lovely. Really, it’s wonderful. Because that’s _all_ that matters John,” she smiled at him. And for a moment he really wanted that to be true. The tension was still sitting in the air like an insidious cloud of smoke hovering over them and Sherlock wasn’t sure what to do to try and help.

“John’s going to become a doctor,” he settled on. He hated how enthusiastic he sounded. He could almost hear John’s teeth grinding. “If all things go well he will start his medical degree next year,” he said proudly, squeezing John’s leg and giving him a smile to encourage him to go along with it. Mrs Watson looked to John with pride but also a sadness in her eyes.

“Sherlock’s going to be a brilliant scientist,” John let out, not sure how to handle the way she was looking at him. “He’s doing ground-breaking research on the brain – using me as a case study. It’s going to be published,” he said, giving Sherlock a gentle smile. Sherlock could see John almost looked nauseous at how hard this was to stay civil. It was clearly a cry for help.

“Oh, how wonderful. You’re both doing so well. Your father would have been so proud of you Johnny,” she said softly.

Finally, John couldn’t hold in his emotions any longer, the mention of his father pushing him over the edge. Sherlock saw the change in his face and he gripped at John’s leg, but it was too late.

“This is ridiculous! Mum … _how could you not ring me?_!” he snapped finally, slamming his fists on the table and making them all jump. “When Dad … why wouldn’t you just _tell m_ e, for christ’s sake?” He was so angry, and his voice cracked, betraying the hurt he was feeling too. Just being in this house again gave him so many memories of his time with his parents, sitting at this table to eat, playing in the garden, walking the corridor. As angry as he was at his parents, it was more than that. He had been robbed of something, of processing this thing, whatever it was he was feeling. He couldn’t contain it any more. He put his face in his hands in defeat.

“Oh _John_ ,” she began, tilting her head to the side sympathetically. She knew she had done the wrong thing. The guilt was written all over her face. The kettle interrupted them, loudly shrieking from the kitchen.

“Why don’t I make us the tea while you talk?” Sherlock offered, getting up and heading to the kitchen to give them some space, and to stop the incessant squealing noise from the kettle that demanded their attention. He brushed along John’s back with his hand in support as he passed.

“Thank you Sherlock dear,” Mrs Watson said sweetly, before turning back to look at her son, placing her hand on his arm. He flinched at the unexpected contact but let her keep her hand there.

“John, I didn’t think you’d want anything to do with us after the meeting at the university, to be honest,” she said finally. “Your father was so angry that day. Seeing you both there together after he thought you had been separated. He was so angry.”

Sherlock listened in from the kitchen quietly and bristled at the statement. He was not sure how that was supposed to be helping – making them feel guilty for being together, for upsetting John’s father. _How about what it did to John?_

“But he _did_ love you, John. Very much. He was raised in a different time, in a different way. We _both_ were. It was very hard for him to accept – that you two had … But he cried that night. In all the years we’ve been married I don’t think I’ve ever seen him cry, not like that. He didn’t think I could hear him, but I did. He was upset with how things went at the Dean’s office.”

“Crying about his son being with a man? Lovely,” John scoffed shaking his head.

“No John. That wasn’t it. That’s not fair. That wasn’t how he wanted that day to go. He never was one to say much but I know that wasn’t what he had planned. We both always just wanted what was best for you. You were his son and he loved you.”

“How can you say that? The things he said to me … to Sherlock.” John looked at her with annoyance.

“I’m so ashamed John, of how all of that went,” she admitted, her face dropping at the memory of that day.

“Well you should be used to it by now. I mean, with Harry. You clearly gave up on her too,” he accused her.

“John, that’s not fair. Your sister … that was different altogether. She was so young and we …” she started to cry. “I will always regret that she left and cut us all off. I didn’t expect it would happen again with you as well. We didn’t want it to happen again,” she sobbed.

“You didn’t learn from your mistakes, did you? Or did you think that cutting me off from the only person I truly loved and trying to make me forget him would be the way to keep me closer to you?” He was bitter and he couldn’t stop being cruel.

“No. John, please stop it,” She sobbed. “With your sister, it was more about her rejection of the church and our values and not wanting to discuss it. She didn’t want to give us the time to understand. She was young and impatient and demanding.”

Sherlock came to the table, placing the tea down carefully and not saying anything.

“And then with you John, you always kept Sherlock at a distance from us. You didn’t want us to meet him. In all the time you were friends we didn’t meet him … and when you finally told us that you were a couple, we were in shock, John. People these days are so much freer talking about these things. But for us, it took us by surprise. And we loved Sarah so much. She was so lovely, and we thought you loved her. You brought her to meet us, so we thought … we thought you had found someone special. And suddenly, it was over, and you were talking about Sherlock … and we just assumed you were confused … that it wouldn’t last.”

John didn’t speak. Sherlock struggled to hear it. It didn’t surprise him. He always just assumed that John’s parents were so poor that he was embarrassed for Sherlock to meet them and see where they lived. But this home was unassuming and lovely. It had never been about that at all. The fact that John had kept him secret, hurt a bit. The fact that John was saying nothing, a little concerning.

“The only time we had contact with Sherlock, he was off his face on drugs after the accident that killed a person … that killed _Sarah_. Who we _thought_ you were in love with. We didn’t understand what had happened. We just wanted what was best for you. Your father went to the police station and he saw Sherlock, the state of him. The police filled him in on the accident report, and he was devastated. We weren’t sure you were going to make it at first. He was just protecting you.”

John let out a huff of air, scoffing at what she said. _Was she right? Had he kept Sherlock hidden from them deliberately?_ He could just imagine how his father would have responded to seeing Sherlock unkempt and covered in blood, high on god knows what. John’s father had always been very particular and despite not being wealthy, or high born, he had high, exacting standards for his family.

“We knew you were struggling with the choice between Sarah and Sherlock … after your visit … and we wanted to help make it easier for you. We thought we were making it easier for you,” she blubbered.

“How could you think that. _How?_ ” John demanded, punctuating it with another slam of his fist on the table, as much in frustration at himself as with her.

“I don’t know. Johnny you’re my boy,” she pleaded. “And I wanted … well I wanted grandchildren I suppose. I know that’s selfish.”

“Yeah. It is,” he said bluntly, crossing his arms defensively. Sherlock held his tea cup and stared at the table, not wanting to interfere.

“John, If I had known you loved Sherlock as much as you did. If you had told us _properly_. If you had really tried to explain it to us …” She tried to justify her thoughts.

“I thought I did,” he interrupted her.

She clicked her tongue in sympathy. “Oh John, you’re so guarded. You’ve always been so guarded … so private. And we’ve tried to let you just be yourself. We just didn’t understand how in love you really were. But I can see it now,” she said sadly.

“We can still give you grandchildren … if you want,” Sherlock said, barely audibly, almost to himself.

John was surprised. “What?”

“I mean, I’ve always wanted to raise a child,” Sherlock stated calmly.

“Is that something you really want?” John was momentarily distracted.

“Sure, I mean, we could adopt? Or find a surrogate.” He seemed so calm. John’s head was spinning. He did not expect this from Sherlock and he couldn’t let himself get distracted right now.

Mrs Watson raised her eyebrows and sat up a little straighter with glee, clearly pondering the opportunities still ahead. But John couldn’t think about that now.

“Okay but Mum, to not tell me my own father had died? _Really?_ _”_ He was still unable to grasp it.

“I didn’t think you would care that your father had died, after what happened. I thought you probably hated us both and wouldn’t want to hear from me. I was scared. I thought that if I called, you wouldn’t answer your phone and I couldn’t bear that. Not after your sister as well.”

“You could have at least tried, Mum. I mean … why didn’t you just try?” John had never really realised how weak she was. His parents had always seemed so together and confident. Mrs Watson didn’t have an answer to that and she sat, staring down at her tea, feeling the weight of the guilt, of her bad decisions.

“Well wasn’t there a funeral? A _service_? Anything?” John asked, trying to get more of his frustration out, not willing to give her an inch of pity.

“No, your father didn’t want that. He just wanted a simple cremation. His family is all gone, my family is gone. There’s just you and your sister. And we had alienated you both,” she let out a little sob. “There was no-one to hold the service _for_.”

John just shook his head; no words could come to him. The idea that his family was so decimated and none of the vague memories he had about this place were helping. He had nothing to hold on to from his past. No sign that this was even worth salvaging.

“You could go and visit the memorial plaque if you like. I can write down the directions,” she said as a weak means to placate him.

“Look, no. I’m sorry that he’s gone. And that you lost your husband. And I’m sorry that I didn’t have a chance to say the things I needed to say to him. But right now, I’m _not_ sorry he’s gone.” John regretted it the moment it came out of his mouth and he felt a pang in his chest from guilt.

“John,” Sherlock scolded, putting his hand on John’s arm. It was an insensitive thing for him to say, even in anger, and not at all like him.

“No, no, it’s all right, Sherlock,” Mrs Watson said gently. “I can understand that, John. I can. Well one day maybe…”

“I just can’t. Not now,” he said, putting his head in his hands in defeat. “I can’t.”

Sherlock placed his hand on John’s back to support him and sat drinking his tea quietly, not wanting to say anything. Mrs Watson grabbed a biscuit off the tray, as she tried to think of some way to explain things to John that wouldn’t hurt him. She had never been someone to stand up for her children. She never liked that about herself. She was an obedient wife, women had been raised to be obedient wives in her time. The husband decided the direction of the family and the wife followed. Between her husband and her church, there was no room for her to have an opinion of her own. She could understand how John was feeling. It was difficult for her to admit to it, but she knew she would have to give him some insight if they were going to heal. She swallowed hard on a bite of the biscuit, washing it down with the tea.

“You still should have told me,” John said stubbornly, his head still in his hands.

“To be honest, when your father died, I felt … relief,” she said tentatively, looking to John for his reaction. He looked up at her, his brow drew in, confused. “A _huge_ amount of relief … that I was free of him … of everything. And sadness too of course. But mostly relief. Honestly the months have gone so quickly, it feels like it’s only been weeks. I _did_ mean to call, honestly, or ask Mike to help with that, but time just got away … and I didn’t know how much you remembered or if Mike calling would be upsetting or confusing … and then it felt like it had been too long to call,” she said sadly. “I can understand that you have mixed feelings about all of this.”

“So it’s my fault then? That you didn’t call? Is that what you’re trying to say?” John accused.

“John,” Sherlock stepped in again to pull him in line. John let out a huff of air in frustration.

Mrs Watson didn’t say anything. There was nothing that could be said to that.

“I suppose Mike … did he help with …?” John couldn’t even get the sentence out. He didn’t know whether to cry or scream and his chest was so churned up that even getting words out was hard.

“He did. Johnny, oh I hope that’s okay. Honestly, I didn’t know how to ring you and tell you. It was an upsetting time, I just couldn’t … I’m not strong like you.” She let out in a flurry of words.

“Strong? You think I’m strong?” John said, genuinely surprised. Strong was not the word he would use to describe himself. Not taking into account everything he had learned about himself and everything that had happened.

“Of _course_ you are. Look how you are thriving. Look how you battled on after … everything. You found each other. I would never have survived all of that the way you did …” She said meekly but stopped short at the look he fired at her.

“Thriving? _Thriving?_ We are _far_ from thriving. This thing … this …” He couldn’t get his thoughts in order, and he rubbed his hands over his hair, trying to clear his head. “Look, the other reason I was here … was … I’ve been going to therapy and getting help with my amnesia.”

“Well that’s great, isn’t it? See? This is what I mean. You’re getting on with things. It’s really good that you are able to work on that. Is it helping?” She tried to sound supportive, desperate to keep her son engaged and talking to her.

“I remember things. So many things now. Sherlock’s brother was able to secure the files from the clinic as well, to help us, so I know what was done … what you let them do … _the things they did to me …”_ his voice hoarse from emotion, from the memory of the things he had read. He stood up and walked to the window to stand and look out at the garden, overcome with emotions. He didn’t think he could handle looking her in the eye now that he was here to talk about it. He couldn’t bear it. Sherlock’s heart was aching for John right now. There was no easy way to help him through this.

“Oh John, I can’t even to begin to say I’m sorry the right way for any of that. For all of it. I know I can’t. But I had no idea. You have to believe that. The extent of it. You were so unwell when they brought you in. By the time we got to the hospital … you were not in a good way at all. We didn’t think you would survive. Your father, he was so distraught, he went straight down to the police station to demand answers, from the police, from Sherlock.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who had not reacted to this news at all. “ _You …_ saw him?”

“I honestly have no memory of it, John. I was in no state,” Sherlock said, equally shocked, shaking his head and trying to remember for himself. _Had he met Mr Watson that night?_

“You spoke to each other, but it did nothing to help him feel better about any of it,” she said to Sherlock. “He was determined to separate you both permanently. He was livid. By the time he got back to the hospital, we were making decisions to put you in a medically induced coma. Even once you were awake, you were a mess John. We were terrified you wouldn’t make it. Your father had a friend who knew someone who had the clinic. They convinced us it could help with the physical therapy, with the trauma, with everything. Their speciality they told us. We just wanted to help. Your father knew that whatever this was between you two, it wasn’t healthy, it hadn’t been good … for _either_ of you. He wanted to make things easier, to just make it go away.” She reached over for a tissue from a box on the window sill, her nose running from the amount of crying. “I didn’t know how far they would take it.”

“Do you even hear yourself? Do you hear how that sounds?” John snapped from the window. “I love him. I _loved_ him. You guilted me into thinking I couldn’t possibly be happy like this. You used my university fees as bribery. You and Sarah were in cahoots figuring it all out behind my back … and I felt like I had no other choice. Have you forgotten all of that?!” he levelled at her with so much anger even Sherlock was taken aback. “And then all hell broke loose because I broke Sherlock’s heart. You broke us _both_.” John grabbed a ceramic ornament that had been resting on the window ledge and threw it across the room, smashing it.

“No, John. No.” Mrs Watson let out a cry in shock and began sobbing in earnest.

“John …” Sherlock tried to intervene.

“And in the end Sarah died because of all of it! Was it worth it?” he spat at her, ignoring her state.

“No John, No. Of course it wasn’t. _Of course_ it wasn’t,” she sobbed.

“John that’s enough,” Sherlock said firmly, putting his hand on Mrs Watson’s arm in support. Even though what the Watsons had done to John, to _him_ , was despicable, this was not the way to resolve it – breaking this woman who had lost her children and her husband, was not going to help.

“ _They_ didn’t let up with _us_ , why should _I_?” John snarked back at Sherlock.

“Because you’re better than that. And we are fine, remember?” Sherlock said gently. “We are happy, and we’ve mended those things. This won’t help anyone, not like this.” John turned back to look at the garden outside, chin lifted stubbornly. He couldn’t be here without remembering so many things about growing up and living in this space with these parents. The memories were so full of joy and love and it hurt. The fact that he could know love with these people but also know how much pain they had caused him, and Sherlock, was incomprehensible.

“I can’t accept that you did those things out of love. That’s not how you show someone you love them,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed outside. “That’s not how you do it.” And he let that sit in the air.

Mrs Watson couldn’t speak, she sobbed quietly into her hands. Sherlock touched her shoulder to reassure her and stood quietly to walk over to John.

“You’re right, John. They didn’t do the right thing. They made a lot of bad decisions. But remember, so did we? We hurt each other a lot before we made it back to each other. We didn’t understand how to do things properly either and we are still learning. Maybe your mum deserves some time to prove that as well? Maybe today doesn’t need to be about burning everything to the ground. Take small steps, remember?” And he rubbed a hand up and down John’s back, before putting his arm around him. John rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, finally relaxing his muscles and accepting the hug. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. John was surprisingly stoic, and he suspected once the anger had settled properly, John would dissolve into a lot of emotions, but for now he just needed support. He needed to know Sherlock was here.

“Mrs Watson, I’m sorry.” Sherlock spoke to her as he held John. “He’s been working on healing his mind and his heart. He’s working very hard at it. It’s going to take a bit of time and it’s all very fresh in his head, what happened. He’s still just coming to terms with the memories as they come thick and fast.”

She sniffed to clear her nose and stood up to face them both, nodding and wiping her eyes. She knew this was going to be a long process for them all to heal.

“You know Johnny, I had Mike clean out some of the rooms upstairs,” she said, hoping he might listen. “He cleared out some of your father’s things and such. Well, he was cleaning out our wardrobe the other day, and I had forgotten that there was a box of your things that I had … well I had hidden from your father. After you went to the clinic.”

John lifted his head and looked back at her, suddenly interested.

“I had a little secret compartment where I kept things that I didn’t want your father to find and I had completely forgotten about it. The cover came away when Mike was cleaning … and there was the box of your things. I had completely forgotten about it. Anyway, I had him put it in your room upstairs. There might be other things in your room too, that you would like to take with you back to London. We have plenty of old suitcases, you could load them up and take some of your belongings back if you like? Only if you wanted to. Maybe you boys would like to go up and have a look and sort through some of your things?” She let the offer sit in the silence between them, waiting hopefully for John to say something.

John needed breathing space. Without acknowledging what she had said, or even checking with Sherlock, he pushed away from Sherlock and walked out of the room and down the corridor to the stairs, without a word, leaving Sherlock and Mrs Watson alone.

“Mrs Watson. I think John came here expecting to rage at you about the therapy and his amnesia and just get it all off his chest and leave. But I can see, in reality, things are a bit more complicated than that. John has really struggled to come to terms with parts of his memories, and the bits he can’t reach yet. But he’s been improving so much. He is getting himself back. It will get better.” He gave her a smile and put his hand on her arm. She nodded in thanks for the effort he was making to reassure her. Yes, she really liked this man her son had found.

“I’m sure you have had a lot to do with that,” she said. “With helping him get better.”

“I hope so. We both have a lot of healing ahead yet. Some of that he will need to get from _you_ , though. He needs to know you’re sorry,” Sherlock said firmly. He could see where John got his insecurities from. He was a lot like his mother: wanting to do right by everyone, but not having the confidence to stand up and do what was right for _himself_. John’s inability to trust in his own instincts and desires was part of how they had ended up in this mess in the first place.

“It’s hard for me to accept that, by standing by my husband, I hurt my own son so much,” she admitted. “I’m coming to terms with that too.”

“You know, it’s actually been lovely to meet you and spend some time with you – and to see you and John together,” Sherlock said, smiling shyly. “Even under these circumstances. He’ll come around. You’ll see.”

“Thank you Sherlock, love. And it’s lovely to meet you finally. I hope we will get to do this more and maybe with time, he _will_ forgive me,” she said wistfully. “Now, you go on up, be with John. I’ll be fine.” And she gave him a little nudge towards the corridor to send him up to John.


	18. The Ring

Sherlock stopped at the door, leaning on the doorframe quietly to observe John. John’s back was to Sherlock and he was sitting half on the side of the bed, one leg bent up and one dangling to the floor, as he sorted through the box. Sherlock could hear him sniffling – he was obviously crying, the stress finally getting to him. Sherlock had been so careful to remain as calm as possible all morning for John, but seeing him here, so lost, amongst his memories, Sherlock felt angry. So many memories had been lost for John. He felt sympathy for Mrs Watson and everything she had said, but his heart also ached for John, for him to just _know_ everything, to remember the things that had meant so much to them back then. Memories that gave their relationship depth and meaning, context, history. Sherlock felt they had lost so much of that. It made him so frustrated that he was the only one with those memories. He didn’t want to force them onto John. John needed to find them on his own, or Sherlock had to let go of them and accept there would always be pieces missing. He was angry that so many important memories had been taken away from them. For nothing really. It hadn’t achieved anything except to rip them apart for years. But being angry wouldn’t help anyone right now. Sherlock needed to be there for John. John needed him to be the strong one today.

On the bed John had already pulled out books, some unidentifiable trinkets, a stuffed toy and some papers Sherlock couldn’t make out. He spotted a CD of the Ravel which made him smile to himself. He didn’t want to disturb John, so he stayed quiet, watching from the door. His heart burned for this man. Watching him suffering had been the hardest thing in all of this.

John pulled a folded jumper out of the box – his grandmother’s jumper. Sherlock remembered the old grey, ratty jumper John would wear all the time. He lifted it out of the box carefully and hugged it up to his face, crying into the jumper for a moment, his sobs muffled by the wool, before taking a breath in and sniffing it.

“It smells like him,” he whispered to himself.

“What? That can’t be right,” Sherlock said without thinking, scrunching his nose up, and standing up off the doorframe. John startled and turned his head to see Sherlock standing there.

“It _does_ ,” John said, a little embarrassed at being caught crying. He sniffed away the tears and smiled a little, wiping his face on the arm of his shirt. “It smells like _you_.”

“That’s your grandmother’s jumper that I told you about, the one you always wore. Surely it should smell like _you_?” Sherlock said bemused.

“Yeah, I remember,” John replied as Sherlock walked over to lean in close and sniff at the jumper. It made John’s chest warm with the closeness of him. Oh, how he needed Sherlock near him. It made everything better.

“Oh, surprising. You’re right actually, that’s the aftershave I used to wear,” Sherlock said with his brow furrowed, impressed it had held the smell so long. Scientifically he would have to look into that.

“It’s crystal clear. I _remember_ that smell. I can see us curled up on the couch together. And we’re watching TV … I can _see it_. Clear as day in my mind. I can _remember_ it,” John said to him with wonder, and Sherlock settled himself on the end of the bed, on the other side of the box, crossing both legs up on the bed, intrigued by John’s unfolding memory. They had indeed snuggled in front of the television many times and John always used to wear that jumper. It was his lazing-about-the-house jumper.

John couldn’t quite read the expression on Sherlock’s face, but it was a mix of intrigue, sadness and relief that John had never seen before. “It smells like _you_ because I wore it around you, all the time, snuggled against you,” John said with such confidence and love in his voice that Sherlock felt it in his heart. It wasn’t a question. John remembered it for himself. They sat there just looking across at each other, both of them remembering moments from the past, and smiling gently to each other about it, caught in the moment.

Then he put the jumper to the side and reached in to lift out a couple of envelopes. He opened the first one. “Look … photos … there’s photos of … us,” he said in awe. John handed half the pile to Sherlock to look through as he flicked through his own pile.

Sherlock smiled sadly at them. There were photos of Mike and John at university that Sherlock remembered taking one lunch time. There was a number of blurry photos from a party, and one very cute candid shot of John and Sherlock that caught his eye. In it, he was laughing freely at something in front of them, but John was not looking. He was staring at Sherlock with such love, Sherlock completely unaware of the attention. The look in John’s eyes completely took Sherlock’s breath away. They both looked so much younger, so carefree and happy. And John was clearly in love. Transfixed by Sherlock. He had never seen this photo, but he remembered the party, recognising the house in the background.

“We weren’t even _together_ when this one was taken,” Sherlock said, showing it to John.

“I told you, I was always crazy about you,” John said with a cheeky smile.

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed, looking back at the photo, admiring it.

“Pretty sure we _were_ together in _this_ one though,” John joked, showing one to Sherlock of them kissing passionately in the kitchen at Baker Street.

“Mike! He was always trying to catch a cheeky shot of us.” Sherlock shook his head, chuckling.

“No wonder Mum hid it – I think Dad’s head might have imploded if he had seen that.” John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was surprised that John was comfortable making a joke about it all of a sudden and they both laughed about it together, the mood lightening.

“Oh, and this one – I remember this day,” John said suddenly as he flicked to another photo, his eyebrows knitting together in concentration. “This was … that day at the lake. We had a picnic. And Mike was there with us. And we … and it rained I think? And we had to pack everything up and run back to the car?” He said it uncertainly as the memory unfolded to him. Sherlock’s face gradually changed as he realised John was … remembering. In so much detail. “ _You_ were wearing some fancy leather shoes and they got ruined in the mud … oh and that ridiculous duck that came and stole your sandwich right out of your hand! Do you remember that?” he laughed. When he looked up at Sherlock to confirm the story, he saw that Sherlock had tears running down his face, silently, just watching John.

“Yes, I remember that,” he said softly. John handed the photo over to Sherlock and rested his hand on Sherlock’s arm.

“You okay?” John asked gently.

He smiled, despite the tears. “She kept all these for you. And you’re … remembering.”

“I haven’t forgotten everything,” he said gently, and Sherlock nodded to him, the emotion still drawn on his face, unable to speak. It was as if John had understood him perfectly. “I guess she really did understand us better than I thought,” John said.

John moved on to the next envelope and opened it to find a letter inside. “Dear Sherlock …” he began, his face suddenly looking confused.

“What’s that?” Sherlock asked, looking up from the photos and placing them on the bed to give John his attention. John didn’t answer, he was busy scanning over the letter.

“It’s yours,” he finally said.

“What is?” Sherlock asked, confused.

“The ring,” John explained, looking up at Sherlock finally. “It’s _yours_.”

“ _That_ ring? The puzzle ring?” Sherlock pointed to the one on John’s finger, unsure. “But I’ve never seen it before.”

“No. You haven’t. Because I was going to give it to you and I never did.” John was trying to take hold of a distant memory floating just out of reach “I … never did. Listen to this …”

John played with the ring, sliding it off and twirling it carefully between his fingers as he read the letter aloud to Sherlock, careful not to break the ring apart.

_Dear Sherlock_

_We’ve only been together a few months, but we’ve known each other much longer. You’re my best friend. But since things have changed and we’ve been together, I know now, that this is the most I’ve ever felt for anyone. I don’t need anyone else in my life. I’ve fallen completely in love with you Sherlock Holmes. I was walking to your flat the other day and I saw this ring in the window of the antique shop around the corner. And it just called out to me. I love antiques because they have a story. I will have to tell you the story of this ring. I can’t wait to give it to you._

_Anyway, this ring is my commitment to you. Because you are so much more to me than just my friend. I love you more than anyone, more than anything. And I haven’t been able to say the words yet. Not to your face. It scares me to say it aloud. But I needed to find a way to show you. I want you to know I’m in this. I’m all in. I don’t regret that we took this leap forward together. I want you to know that I love you. I love you Sherlock and there is no-one else as perfect for me as you._

_You have my whole heart, always._

_John_

They sat very still when he finished reading. Sherlock was in shock. John re-read it another time in his head, thinking.

“It was for me?” Sherlock finally said, staring at the ring in John’s hand, tentative and uncertain.

“Yes.” John stopped fidgeting to look at Sherlock properly, nodding slowly. “Oh my god … Sherlock I _remember_ it. I remember! This ring. I bought it for _you_. I was going to give it to you. That night at the party.” John was excited all of a sudden, the memory coming clearer into view. Sherlock’s heart was pounding fast. John was remembering so many things and it was becoming overwhelming.

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock couldn’t believe any of this. They had been so fragile back then, they had broken up. He couldn’t fathom that John had been far more secure in them than he had realised. “What do you mean?”

“I bought it – before we broke up. I had already written this letter to go with it. But then everything that happened … with my family, and your brother … I lost my nerve and I never gave it to you, obviously. Mum must have found the letter in my things at the dorm. But the night of the party, when I was coming to find you, I grabbed the ring and put it in my pocket. I made a decision that night. And this ring – the puzzle ring, it was with me at the party. So, they must have found it amongst my belongings at the hospital and transferred it with my belongings to the clinic. But … it was … for _you_ ,” John said, passing it to Sherlock.

“I don’t understand. Why would you have … when we were so broken?” he asked uncertainly, letting the ring rest in his palm. He looked at it like it was delicate glass and might break if he took hold of it.

“I can’t think of any better time to give it to you,” John said excitedly, ignoring the look of wariness in Sherlock’s eyes. “I _remember_ now. There was an antique shop – the one just near Baker Street. I saw it there and I thought of you straight away. And I knew. I _knew_ it was for you. I remember the story too. It was apparently made by an inventor who also made jewellery. He created it. He felt his genius brain was always in pieces and he wanted to find someone that would piece him together – to make his brain, and in turn his heart – whole. Something like that anyway. He was waiting to give it to the love of his life and he never found that person. _But I did_.” John put his hands above and below Sherlock’s open palm, covering the ring and joining their hands. New tears tracked down Sherlock’s face as he watched, the emotions overwhelming him. His hand was trembling, but John’s were firm and warm and confident around his.

“Sherlock, I know you’ve felt uncertain about us. So many times. I’ve given you every reason to feel that way. Things have been so unsettled, and you have tried so hard to hold us both together. I know I hurt you back then, so much. I know you thought I was … I was trying to get back to Sarah that night. And break your heart again. But I … I wasn’t. I brought this ring with me. _To the party_. Don’t you see? I knew I was wrong, and I was coming to tell you that I loved you. And that I wanted us to be together. _Permanently_ ,” he said confidently.

Sherlock swallowed hard, unable to speak. The ring felt like it was burning into his skin.

“That’s what I came there for. To help you too, of course. To make sure you hadn’t hurt yourself. But also, with the intent of telling you … that … that I wanted to just be with _you_. No-one else. And I was so sure of it … of _us_ that I brought the ring with me that night. To give it to you. I remember now.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say. He had been so afraid that John didn’t love him back – well John had even told him to move on, told him he couldn’t trust in them. Could it be true that John really had loved him all along? He couldn’t take his eyes off their hands as he listened. He couldn’t look at John.

“ _You_ were the missing piece in _my_ puzzle and I was the missing piece in _yours_. And I had no doubt. Not then and not now. Me leaving with Sarah … I wasn’t going away to be with her. That’s not what I was doing,” he said, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure. Not even after the hypnosis. I wasn’t convinced where my head was at about us. But this … this is how I know.” John needed Sherlock to hear this, to finally be shown that he was confident about them.

Sherlock looked up at John finally and their eyes met. His heart was thudding in his chest so hard, he was sure John could hear it.

“Sarah knew we were in love. Her last words to me were of love and support … for us. For me to look after you. And Mycroft? Mycroft too. He was helping me to help _you_ that night. To _be_ with you. He was supporting us too. All of that hurt, all of that pain we can’t take it away now. We can’t change the fact that it happened. But we can change how we move forward. We can let all of that go and choose to start over … together. I want you to have this finally. Will you wear it?” John asked hesitantly, taking his hands away so Sherlock could look at it again.

“John it’s the most gorgeous ring I’ve ever seen. Of course I will, absolutely,” he said gazing at it with a sparkle in his eye. “It’s … the perfect choice. You’ve always known me better than anyone else. _John Watson_.”

“It reminded me of how you always would say I made you whole, that I kept you focussed, that your mind was able to be clear when I was around. And for me … my heart was whole when you were around. I felt whole when you were with me. And even now, you’ve helped me to piece my memories back together. We’re like puzzle pieces that fit together.” He smiled. Sherlock loved it when John smiled. He couldn’t help but smile back. John leaned forward and kissed him.

“Oh John …” Mrs Watson said suddenly from the doorway, with tears in her eyes too, surprising them both.

“Oh, Mum.” John sat back from Sherlock, startled. “You kept all of these things?” he said, with a tilt of his head in appreciation.

“John. You’re my son. I know I haven’t shown you that enough. Or stood up for you when I needed to. But this was one thing I could do – save the things that meant something to you. When you lost your memories, I lost a part of my son as well. When I had to go through your things, I could see … how much you loved him. And I hoped … I suppose I thought that one day, you might want to see them. That maybe they would help you,” she shrugged.

“It’s perfect, honestly,” John said.

“I know I wasn’t strong enough to stand up to your father. But he’s not with us now. You’re my boy and I’ll always love you,” she said fiercely, “and I want to try and make amends.”

“Thank you,” John said. He walked over to her and hugged her tight. Sherlock looked over and nodded to her. He was happy for John that he was able to make some peace with her today. But there were emotions weighing on his chest heavily about what they had done to John. Those feelings were not completely satisfied, he wasn’t altogether convinced that she deserved their kindness. But he knew that he had to let some of that go. He had John. They had each other back and they couldn’t change their past now.

“If it’s any consolation … I think your father would have come around eventually. Once he saw you two together. Once he really had a chance to see how good you are for each other. I can see how much you love each other. You don’t have to forgive me today John – I don’t expect that. Not yet. But maybe it’s a start.” She smiled, wiping tears away from her face.

“It’s a start,” John said, nodding.

“And I hope this means you will come and visit me more often too?” she pressed.

“Of course we will,” Sherlock answered for John, standing up to join them at the doorway.

“Now, well! That’s enough of that,” she said, suddenly brighter, dismissing the emotions. “No more tears. It’s a lovely day outside. Why don’t you go into the village together? Have some lunch?” she said, looking between them both.

“Do you want to come?” he asked her gently.

“No, no, you boys go and have some fun. Show Sherlock around town and get yourselves a spot of lunch. Come back here after and you can pack up what you want to take home with you then. We can have an early dinner before you get the train home. I still have some things to finish in the garden,” she said encouragingly.

“Okay, that sounds great,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s hand and leading him out of the room.

* * *

Everything was wonderful. At least it seemed that way, until they had put on their coats and left the safety of the house. As soon as they began the walk down into the main street of the village, John went quiet. Sherlock wanted to give him space to think but was also a little unnerved that after what was a romantic moment for them, John was now not saying anything. He tested the waters by trying to put his hand near to John’s, allowing their fingers to brush against each other, but John didn’t take up his hand.

He couldn’t believe how insecure he was feeling all of a sudden. Despite everything John had just said to reassure him inside, he was unsettled by the slightly icy vibe. He glanced over, trying to catch John’s eye as they walked, but he was firmly planting his view forward. Sherlock began to fidget with the ring on his finger as they walked. It felt strange to have something on his finger, but at the same time, it was a constant reminder that John had been so confident of their love. He tried to remind himself of that to reassure his growing nerves. The cold air made the metal extra cold against his finger. The clouds had cleared though, and the sun was shining as they continued down the path. The greenery around them seemed extra vibrant in the sunlight. The little blue wildflowers lining the path made Sherlock smile to himself. There was a field off to their right, and he could see some children running about enjoying the day.

They crossed a little bridge over a creek, and down to the main street of the village. A row of shops and cafés adorned the wide main street. Shops with planters of flowers decorating the front or colourful umbrellas. The village looked so friendly and unassuming and Sherlock smiled at how lovely it was. There were people walking through the street, stopping to chat with each other and getting about the bustle of a Saturday lunch time. The bakery and the butcher were quite popular, with locals doing their shopping for the week. As they walked further down the street, looking in the windows of each shop, some of the locals would smile at them or stop to talk to John with salutations of: _John, how are you? Lovely to see you home. Your mother must be so pleased. Sorry to hear about your father._ John recognised some of them, some he didn’t, but the more of them they passed, the more tense John became and the more distant from Sherlock he became. Sherlock felt things slipping out of control.

At the other end of the main street, the creek had meandered back to meet it, and a path led through an open grassed area beside the creek, with a lovely fountain. The path led a little bit further along to the obligatory village pub, a white cob and thatch build, a small fenced area with umbrellas outside. Some patrons had already made their way there for lunch. As they walked the path past the fountain, Sherlock noticed birds diving down to get water and a young girl dancing around beside the fountain before being called back over to the pub by her father. The sun warmed Sherlock’s back despite the cold air, and he tried to imagine John as a young child growing up here. He felt his stomach grumble and realised how hungry he suddenly was. The pub was very inviting, planter baskets hanging on the outside filled with little red flowers and a sign hanging above the door declaring it _The White Lion._ John didn’t stop to ask if this would suit but stepped inside without a word and Sherlock followed.

The lady behind the bar apparently went to school with John, though he didn’t remember her which only seemed to darken his mood further as he exchanged forced pleasantries. He barely introduced Sherlock to her as they found their way to a table and ordered.

They sat in silence the entire time, eating together as John appeared to be engrossed in his food, and his thoughts. Sherlock was too afraid to speak now, dread building in his gut. He used the time to observe the locals. Across from them near the window, a lovely old couple also sat eating in silence. Sherlock tried to reassure himself that it was a sign of a well-established relationship that two people could enjoy the silence like that. It didn’t mean anything that John was unable to speak right now. A group of older men sat joking at the bar, clearly regulars, flirting with John’s old classmate. A young couple sat to one side of the pub, arguing with their two children to eat their lunch and sit still, and Sherlock’s mind wandered to thoughts of family… _had he really offered to have a family with John earlier? Had that thought actually come out of his mouth? Maybe he had said too much?_

John, meanwhile, was getting more and more angry at himself for staying quiet. The emotions and frustrations of the morning hitting him so unexpectedly. There were so many things he wished he had said to his mother and hadn’t. So many new and unexpected fears he felt now, being here with Sherlock. He didn’t mean to take it out on Sherlock, _of course he didn’t._ But he was increasingly more aware of how many people knew him in this village and he suddenly felt … observed. Suddenly, without meaning to, he was transported back to a time when he lived here, when Sherlock wasn’t a part of his life, and the intense feeling of being scrutinised and judged and needing to uphold an appearance in public was stifling, but inescapable. He wasn’t ready to be making Sherlock public to them all.

As they left the pub finally to walk again in the sunshine, John knew he should be telling Sherlock about the sights of his village – where he used to play, where his school was, the local church his mother went to, which had been visited by the Queen herself – a local claim to fame. But he just couldn’t bring himself to make idle chatter. He couldn’t shake his mood. They stepped out onto the grassed area beside the pub, Sherlock taking a moment to look up to the sky and let the sun warm his face. John could see how stunning this man was. And he was acutely aware that everyone was noticing him. He did not fit in here as a local – far too sophisticated in his dress and even his posture. His tall stunning form far too eye catching for John’s liking. Already he could see sideways glances and whispers of people nearby. People who recognised John and were wondering who this other man was. John’s head was playing tricks on him, feeling paranoid and uncomfortable.

He imagined they were thinking: _John Watson … isn’t he the one who? Wasn’t he involved in … didn’t he have amnesia … didn’t his girlfriend … who is that man with him … that can’t be the one who?_

John wanted to shrink away and disappear. Why did he think coming into town with his dashing boyfriend like this was a good idea? He regretted it. He was angry. He wanted to go back to Baker Street, to the safety of their cocoon. He was angry that he had brought Sherlock. But also, angry that he was ignoring Sherlock and couldn’t seem to snap out of it. Angry that he knew it would be making Sherlock worry. Angry that he was letting a bunch of people he barely remembered or cared about control his behaviour … and he needed to stop it.

They started to walk along the path back, John not knowing where he was going to take Sherlock yet, trying desperately to quiet his mind and snap out of this head space he was in. He glanced over at Sherlock and the expression on his face made John’s heart stop.

“Sorry. Can we just … stop,” John said, standing still suddenly, putting his arm out to stop Sherlock from walking further. “I know I’m being weird. _I know._ I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m just not … comfortable.” And if it were possible, Sherlock’s face dropped even further in despair. “Sorry, no Sherlock. God I’m doing everything wrong!” He turned to look at Sherlock properly. “I mean I’m comfortable with _you_ … with _us_ … with my decision. I’m just not comfortable … I don’t know if I’m ready to …”

“John it’s fine, you don’t have to explain,” Sherlock said meekly, shaking his head. John felt ill just hearing Sherlock talk like this. The Sherlock he knew and loved was passionate and opinionated. And all day he had been nothing but placating and kind, level-headed and … _pleasant_. It was weird, and annoying and he was frustrated with himself that he was angry at Sherlock when he was really angry at himself.

“What do you _really_ think? About my mother?” John asked him, a little accusatory but trying to stay calm.

“I think she’s … I think it’s a complicated situation John,” Sherlock said hesitantly.

“That’s it?” John was annoyed again.

Sherlock sighed. “I think your mother loves you and she did the best she could at the time. Like we all did. And I think you’ve made a good start towards making amends with each other,” Sherlock said formally, a textbook answer even.

“I just … can’t seem to figure out what I’m feeling right now. I was fine while I was there with her. But now it’s … I’m raging inside. I’m torn. I’ve lost my father, I don’t want to lose my mother as well. But Sherlock, what they did to us …” John looked at him with frustration.

“I know, John. I know,” Sherlock said obediently, nodding.

“You’re so goddamned calm!” John suddenly snapped. “How can you be so calm in all of this?” The frustration leaking out, John started to walk away from Sherlock.

“Hey. I’m not the enemy here.” Sherlock grabbed at John’s elbow to stop him.

“You … that whole time with her, you were so _good_ to her!” John shouted, pointing back towards his home. Sherlock let go of John like he had been slapped.

“John, I assure you, I was calm on the outside, but I have enough fury running through me today to power a small country,” Sherlock said angrily between gritted teeth, and John was taken aback.

“Really?” John suddenly felt weary, but a rush of relief.

“ _Absolutely_. I’m doing that for you. I was trying to stay calm … for you.” He grabbed both of John’s hands, frustrated. “Hear me, _John Watson_. I would fight to the death for you. And I am _not_ okay with what they did. _Not even a little bit._ But we can’t undo the past. All we can do is be the best humans we can be right now.” He looked into John’s eyes and made sure he was really listening. “I was ready to step in, if you needed me. But you did beautifully all on your own. You stood your ground, but you also listened. I think you did so well. I’m so proud.” And he gave Johns arms a little shake. “Plus, I kind of wanted her to like me.” He blushed at the admission. It sounded so pathetic.

John smiled forcibly and removed his hands from Sherlock’s, looking around to see if anyone was watching. Sherlock bristled at the gesture. John chastised himself internally for doing it without thinking.

“Do you _want_ to go and see your father’s memorial? While we’re here?” Sherlock asked, trying whatever he could to connect with John.

“No. Not this visit, no. I’m not ready,” John said quietly, looking away from Sherlock. “But I’d like to come again sometime, maybe.”

“I think that would be a good idea. Your mother clearly wants to make amends,” Sherlock said gently.

“Would you come back?” he asked Sherlock, his eyes looking a bit lost, “with me?”

“John,” Sherlock scolded him, “of course I will.” And he grabbed John’s hand again, more confidently, to show he was committed. John smiled at him but pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s again and walked over to the fountain to sit.

Sherlock didn’t understand what was happening. It had been an emotional visit with his mother, no doubt. But it wasn’t like John to shut him out, not anymore. Not since they had agreed to always work together on these things. It hurt. He followed quietly but couldn’t sit beside John, suddenly acutely aware John was trying to distance himself. Perhaps he had said something wrong? John could feel the tension off Sherlock, but he didn’t know how to fix it. How to pull himself out of his mood.

“It’s a lovely village, John. It must have been nice growing up here.” Sherlock tried to make conversation as he stood awkwardly in front of the fountain. He knew his voice sounded flat and despondent. He was feeling more and more like he should not have come on this trip.

“ _Nice?_ Well it’s a small village – everyone knows your business. I never liked that. It’s even worse when you have amnesia, and everyone knows your business _except_ you,” he huffed to himself.

John knew he was upsetting Sherlock. This man had put up with so much and still wanted to be with him. And he knew he loved Sherlock. He _knew_ it. John had meant everything he had said. Why was he messing this up all of a sudden? Why was he letting old habits rule his behaviour? Why was everything suddenly suffocating him and making him hurt the one person he needed the most in the world?

“Sherlock,” he finally let out on a huff of air, “I’m sorry. God I …” John began guiltily.

Sherlock couldn’t make eye contact, shuffling his feet on the grass awkwardly. “It’s fine John, I mean, I’m in your space. Your home town. You need to do this your way and if you don’t want to … if you can’t … it’s fine,” he finished uncomfortably.

“No,” John said firmly.

“What?” Sherlock looked up at him suddenly, beginning to panic. Had John changed his mind? Had he decided this was too hard? Maybe after everything, he actually couldn’t do this. Maybe Sherlock wasn’t enough after all. Being home might have reminded John of all the reasons why it had been uncomfortable to be with him. He braced himself for the inevitable, closing his eyes.

“It’s really not fine. It’s _not_ all right and you need to stop giving me permission to treat you like rubbish,” John said finally. Sherlock was caught by surprise and he opened his eyes to look at John.

“W-what … do you mean?” he stuttered.

“You know what I mean. Here I am taking you for granted … _again_. I _know_ I am. And I promised myself I would not do this to you. Not again. I am not going to repeat the patterns and faults of my parents. I refuse. I am not going to take you for granted ever again Sherlock Holmes.”

“It’s okay John, honestly. You don’t have to … I believe you. I know you love me. I know when you come home with me tonight, we will make up for it,” Sherlock said, far too kindly.

“No. I don’t want to just make up for it at night. I don’t want it to just be about that I …” John looked around him frantically. “In fact … wait,” he said suddenly, as he stood up with a glint in his eye, a clear shift in his mood. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze.

“John?” Sherlock was unsettled. John let go of Sherlock’s hand and leapt up onto the edge of the fountain. “John? What are you doing?” Sherlock looked around him to check if anyone was watching. The people sitting outside the pub at the tables in the sun began to watch curiously.

“Excuse me everyone! Hi there. I’m John Watson,” he called out to all the people moving about the street. He projected his voice surprisingly well. Some of them stopped to listen, some gave him an odd sideways glance and kept walking. One of the tables of men outside the pub gave him a cheer.

“Oh John! Hello dear,” an old lady said as she walked by, her shopping hanging on one elbow, her husband’s arm linked into the other.

“Mrs Carter! Hello. Lovely to see you – _and_ your husband,” John said with a big smile.

Sherlock blushed at John’s suddenly odd and loud behaviour. He was shocked to notice that John remembered these people, without any prompting. Sherlock was momentarily excited by it, but also a little nervous about what he was doing.

“Most of you know me. I grew up here. And I just wanted to let everybody know that I … am in love … with this man here. He is the love of my life. And I’m very happy! I couldn’t be any happier. And I’m not taking him for granted _ANYMORE!”_ he shouted, arms outstretched.

“John! What are you doing?” Sherlock whispered loudly at him, looking around nervously.

John held his hand out to Sherlock, who looked at it nervously, before taking it. _What else was he going to do?_ John pulled him up onto the fountain and suddenly wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I’m not going to love anybody else,” he said gently to Sherlock before adding loudly: “And I want the whole world to know!” And with that he grabbed Sherlock by both sides of his face and pulled him in and kissed him firmly. In front of everyone. Some people in the distance cheered and clapped. The drunken boys at the pub loved it. Mr and Mrs Carter gasped in shock and walked off, gossiping to each other.

“Sherlock, I want everyone to know it. I’m not ashamed of us, I’m _not_.” John let his hands trail down and grab at the front of Sherlock’s coat. “It was just weird coming back here. All the old … habits and feelings coming back to me. But I’m going to stop feeling that way. And I’m not going to _ever_ let anyone dictate how we love each other again. Do you hear me?” He said it fiercely and he pulled on the coat to bring Sherlock closer to kiss him again, this time grabbing him around the waist to hold him close and kiss him properly. Sherlock was lightheaded from the unexpected assault, after thinking things were going in a completely different direction. He wrapped his arms around John and let himself sink into the kiss, not realising just how much he needed it. He sighed as John pulled out of the kiss. But John still held Sherlock close, breathing in the air between them, needing to stay in his space a bit longer.

“Mrs Carter didn’t look very happy. I think there will be much ado tomorrow morning at church,” Sherlock finally said to John with a smirk.

“Let them talk,” John said smiling, rising up on his toes to plant a kiss on Sherlock’s nose.

“Quite so. People do little else,” Sherlock laughed.

John’s smile dropped from his face, the humour forgotten, as he suddenly became very serious. “Sherlock I’m sorry. I was being a twat. Nothing is ever going to stand between us again. Not a single thing. Not our past, not anything in our present. I promise. I’m sorry if I scared you. I just got caught up in my head. We are so much stronger than all of that. I know that. I do. And I love you.”

“John, you don’t have to promise me …” Sherlock began shyly.

“Oh, I think I do. You have that ring now.” John grabbed Sherlock’s hand so they could both admire it. “I don’t think we’re ready to do anything as rash as getting married just yet. There’s still a lot for us to work through. But I want to be very clear. I have no doubts. Not anymore. No-one else is ever going to take your place _ever again_. You are my whole world and I am yours and I am staying.” He rubbed his fingers over the surface of the ring but didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s. Sherlock could hardly breathe. “I _remember_ how much I loved you then and I _know_ how much I love you now and that ring … that ring now represents all of the pieces of us that were broken and are being put back together to make us _both_ whole.” He gave Sherlock a beautiful, confident, happy smile. For the first time in a long time, he looked properly relaxed and contented.

“ _There_ you are,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “There’s _my_ John. I do love you, John Watson. _So much._ ” He leaned in closer, looking into John’s beautiful blue eyes, the love in them mirroring his own. There were no tears, not this time. It was a pure declaration of confidence and certainty.

“Yes. You found me, Sherlock Holmes. You found me, and _I love you for it.”_ John leaned in and put his forehead to Sherlock’s.

Sherlock pulled him into a hug, and they stood there on the fountain together, enjoying the peace they had found with each other at last, taking in the sunshine and not caring about what anyone else thought about it.


	19. Epilogue - Sherlock's Blog

_It’s been an incredibly huge day for John. For both of us._

_We saw Mike after all this time. A lot of old wounds were wrestled with. I got to see John’s home town. We finished the day having dinner with John’s mother. At the end of the day she hugged us both goodbye and made us promise to come back soon, as a more regular thing. We also managed to leave with two suitcases of John’s things and a bag of leftovers._

_I’m not sure if John is ready to commit to regular visits yet, though. I’m also pretty sure Mycroft is going to expect us to start doing Sunday dinners with my family too – give me strength. Suddenly we’re in high demand! But I think for both of us there is still a lot of anger to work through yet, before we can reach real forgiveness. I suspect there will be a few more visits to Claire in our future to work on that._

_We came home on the evening train and I was making us a cup of tea, so we could sit and just talk about the day before bed, but John has crashed – fast asleep on the couch. I didn’t have the heart to move him. He looks so peaceful and it’s been a lot for him to take in today. So instead, I’m writing this blog as I watch him sleep in front of me. He’s so adorable when he’s asleep. Seeing his face relaxed and calm. It’s almost as if none of the pain from the last few years has happened. Or the stress of today._

_I understand why he does this now – these blogs. It’s never appealed to me before. My mind palace is perfectly sufficient to lock away facts and memories, but suddenly I needed a place to put all these feelings. I needed somewhere to just write down my thoughts. So, I’m writing a blog entry of my own. Maybe this time we will get to read this one together._

_I’m so proud of this man in front of me who has literally battled through time itself to be with me. I adore him. We are really going to be okay and I know that now. John remembered so much today. If nothing else, I’m thankful we went back there for that. It triggered so many memories for him. He’s really starting to remember._

_Today we broached some pretty heavy emotions with John’s mother. But I think he will always be sad that his father died before he could resolve things with him. I think today was a small step towards John feeling accepted and comfortable in his own skin though. He has made some small steps towards healing a very ugly history with his mother. And he’s happy with his decision to be with me, finally. I know I’m happy with my decision. I always had been. But I can finally understand and believe that he loved me all along too. That I was his first choice._

_I never expected to find a love like this – to deserve anything like this. It certainly wasn’t an easy path, that’s for sure – not for us at least. But the path has led us back to each other. I hate to admit, that thanks to my brother, we have made our way back to one another and we are healing. I am forever grateful that even without his memories, John was a stubborn sod who wouldn’t let me go. That something in him always knew he needed to be with me. But now we have some of the memories back as well and he loves me anyway. Even with all of the good and bad from before. He loves me. And I love him. And we’re going to be okay._

_I’m finally hopeful for the future. For what we will be able to do in the future … together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness did this end up bigger than I planned!
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed following the boys and weaving your way through John's journey back to Sherlock. I've definitely loved writing it and I admit I will miss them now that it's done.
> 
> A huge thank you again to Kat, Bego and Janet for all your support and encouragement - and for reading what I write with such love and enthusiasm.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness did this end up bigger than I planned!
> 
> For Naomi Barton, who pushed me to work harder on setting and detail and delve a bit deeper.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy following the boys and weaving your way through John’s journey back to Sherlock. I’ve definitely loved being in their heads for a small while. 
> 
> A huge thank you again, to Kat and Bego for all your support and encouragement – and for reading what I write with such love and enthusiasm. And ESPECIALLY to Janet, for her editing genius to tidy up the hot mess that is my writing process!! BIG LOVE JANET x


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